


Hold My Hand, We're Flying Fast

by SnowshadowAO3



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Badass!Cora, Boss!Erica, Briefly featuring her, Canonical Character Death, Derek is a gentleman, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hot Sex, I hate Kate Argent, M/M, Men in love, Mentioned Kate Argent, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, San Francisco, Stiles is afraid of flying, musician!derek, nice!peter, photographer!stiles, sterek, stiles is a dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowshadowAO3/pseuds/SnowshadowAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet on an airplane. Which, given Stiles' history and Derek's annoyance with all things fidgety, isn't the best place to hit things off. But an iPod, a shared Taxi, some photos, and a concert might be enough to change all that.</p><p>“Hold on—” he began, but as he stepped forward Derek suddenly turned around with a conflicted look on his face.<br/>“Actually—” Derek said, at the same time, and they collided with each other. </p><p>Human AU set in San Francisco. Derek is a musician, and Stiles is a photographer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles’ leg jittered up and down like an alarm clock in his seat.

The woman who had scanned his boarding pass had gazed at him strangely when he had to ask where he was sitting. His hands shook too strongly for him to read his seat on the flimsy white paper.

He bit his nail, leaning around the blue seatback in front of him to gaze nervously into the aisle. It was cramped and smelled vaguely like a hospital, stale and congested, and his goddamn leg would not stop bouncing like an overexcited six year old.

He tried to take deep breaths, cursing himself for forgetting his dose of Adderall yesterday. It certainly was not helping with his hyperactivity now, not when he was already nervous. This would be the first time in four years that he had set foot on a plane.

Stiles hated flying.

This was the last thing he wanted to be doing with his weekend. If his rental car hadn’t broken down yesterday, and if he didn’t have to be back to San Francisco by tomorrow afternoon, he would have just waited. But now he was on a goddamn airplane and it _sucked._

He looked up at the ceiling, fiddling with the fan in order to give his hands something to do. He bit his lip, his eyes narrowing in concentration and he tried to position the tiny jet of air onto his face. He felt sick. His foot went _taptaptap_ against the grey, thin carpet lining the plane. He wished he had his camera here to distract him.

The snap of a magazine to his right made him turn his head. There, by the window, was the person he would be sharing this four-hour flight with. The man’s dark hair and stubble gave him a tired, frustrated look; or maybe that was Stiles’ doing.

“Can you stop _fidgeting?_ ” the man snapped, and Stiles scowled at him. _Who shoved something up his ass?_ He wanted to come up with a witty retort, but he was too nervous. He also wanted to hit the man across the face, tell him that there was every reason to be nervous about flying because humans aren’t meant to fly, that’s why they don’t have wings, and maybe your luggage will get lost or the window will crack and suck out all the oxygen or maybe, just maybe the plane will crash and Stiles would die with fire scorching his skin.

But instead, he just said, “No,” and resumed tapping his foot.

The man sighed in exasperation. His eyes, Stiles couldn’t help but notice, were a forested green that contained speckles of deep, woody brown. “You have been doing that since we boarded. I get that you’re impatient to leave—”

“I’m actually not,” Stiles snapped, unable to help himself from commenting. “I would much rather never take off. Put on some headphones if you’re so distracted. I’m nervous, and I can’t help it.” He crossed his arms and looked back to the aisle, refusing to look at the window seat man. He was becoming increasingly frustrated and anxious. Why did he have to be stuck next to the one person who was rude enough to comment on his hyperactivity?

When he glanced back over at the man, he saw one eyebrow quirked up in disbelief. He glanced back to the seatback, then once again at Window Man. He was still staring at Stiles, looking unimpressed. Turning to him, Stiles spat, “What?”

“I don’t own an iPod,” Window Man said, slowly, “so—”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Stiles hissed, and dug into his pockets to withdraw his white iPod. He practically threw it at the man. “Use mine,” he muttered, and proceeded to look at the aisle again. Compared to his barely remaining sanity, his iPod was an easy sacrifice. He drummed his fingers against his leg, tapping out a random rhythm to try and soothe himself.

There was a moment of silence, and then Window Man said, quietly, “Thanks, then.” He clearly hadn’t expected Stiles to offer his own music. Stiles refused to look over at him. But then he heard a chuckle. Incensed, Stiles turned to the man.

“What _now?_ ”

“Nothing,” Window Man said, a small smile tugging against his lips. Stiles realized he was looking through his music. He felt his cheeks heat up, and looked away again.

“You were the one who wanted music,” he said, embarrassed, and to his surprise Window Man actually rolled his eyes. When he was using _Stiles’_ iPod.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks,” he said, and there was a touch of sincerity behind his words. Stiles swallowed loudly, and went back to tapping his fingers against his leg as Window Man slipped Stiles’ headphones into his ears.

For the next few minutes, as more passengers streamed onto the plane, no snide remarks were exchanged between the two. Stiles leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as his stomach tossed and turned. He tried to breathe through his nose, remembering what his therapist had told him about relaxation.

The rumble of the plane’s engine started, and Stiles’ eyes instantly snapped open. He could feel himself paling as the wheels started turning, moving the plane slowly down the runway. He gripped the plastic armrests so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He tried to keep breathing slowly, controlled. But his heart was pounding away in his ears and he was biting his lip obsessively. His fingernails had already been reduced to stubs, or else he would be tackling them too.

“Hey… are you gonna be alright?” said a voice next to him, and Stiles glanced over with a clenched jaw to see that Window Man had turned to look at him with wary eyes. Grinding his teeth so he wouldn’t be sick, he nodded curtly and turned back to the front, attempting to give off don’t-talk-to-me-or-I-may-barf-all-over-your-shirt vibes. The seat between them was empty, and Stiles wished someone would sit there. He could still feel Window Man’s eyes on him, but that wasn’t his problem right now. Let the man stare. Stiles was used to being stared at, used to getting people’s attention with his uncoordinated movements and loud personality. He was simply not meant to blend in. Scott always joked that he would be the worst undercover officer ever, even though Stiles disagreed because he was convinced he could use his amazing charms and good looks to seduce anyone who found him. _Not._ But hey, at least, unlike Scott, he could defend himself; had been forced to go to self-defense classes for most of his life by his dad. Guess that just came with being the Sheriff’s kid.

The departure was torture. All Stiles could think about was four years ago, and getting a knock on the door that turned his world upside-down, and pitying looks and a funeral coated in black tears. The sound of the wheels made his palms sweat. The stewardess was saying something over the intercom but all Stiles could hear was _blah blah blah safety mask in case of oxygen blah blah blah potential death blah blah._ But soon they were in the air, snow shooting past the windows as the late afternoon sky was coated with a blanket of grey. Next to him, Window Man appeared to be reading a book. Stiles glanced at the title, but it was in some foreign language that didn’t make any sense to him. All he knew was that it wasn’t English or French.

Ugh, France.

Things were getting turbulent. He could feel unrest passing through a few of the other passengers as the plane wobbled slightly, buffeted to and fro by the storm outside. Of course, the one flight that Stiles decided to take was a roller coaster in the goddamn sky. It was getting worse and worse every minute, the snow falling harder and thicker as the seconds ticked by. With a particularly violent jerk, a baby started crying farther up the plane. If this didn’t stop, Stiles would be joining in. Enthusiastically. Oh god, he was going to be sick.

“Attention, passengers,” said a voice over the loudspeakers, and Stiles felt his heart enter his throat. Window Man slowly lowered his book, looking out the window with a small frown on his face. “This is your captain speaking. Flight conditions have become too turbulent to continue. Unfortunately, we are being forced to turn around.”

All around him, passengers groaned. Stiles, feeling dizzy, leaned forward with his head between his knees. “Just what I fucking needed,” he muttered in dismay, feeling the plane tilt as it began to circle back to the Denver International Airport. Window Man’s gaze was on him again, but he didn’t care. This was a disaster. He would have to go through this whole process again, plane and all, if he wanted to make his appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Maybelline was a huge client; he couldn’t spare blowing off this job. Erica would do some weird ritual to his genitals like cut them off or tie them into a bow or something, and he preferred his body in working order.

The plane landed, skidding across the icy runway. Stiles was too angry and upset to be nervous anymore. He was out of his seat as soon as the seatbelt sign flickered off, grabbing his bag and not looking back as he slipped his way to the front of the plane. He was the first one off (despite the dirty looks and grumbling from his fellow passengers), already rummaging in his pockets for his phone when he walked into the terminal.

His dad picked up on the first ring. “Stiles?” he said, sounding surprised. “Shouldn’t you be on the plane?”

“The flight was canceled,” Stiles said, slinging his bag more securely over his shoulder as he walked out of the gate. “Weather. I have to go to the desk to see when the next one is.”

His dad made a sympathetic noise on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry, son. It seems you aren’t having the best of luck this trip.”

 _That is the understatement of the century,_ Stiles thought bitterly to himself. He speed-walked to the desk, and groaned when he saw that all flights to San Francisco were canceled for the night.

“What’s wrong?” said the crackling, concerned voice at the other end of the line, and Stiles muttered curses under his breath and opened his mouth to reply. But he cut short when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and his eyes widened.

Window Man was tall, and now that Stiles was off the plane he had a much better look at him. How had he been too nervous to realize the guy he was sitting next to was a show-stopper? He was a few inches taller than Stiles, with ripped arms and tanned skin that looked exceptionally well cared-for. And holy _shit,_ his mouth—

“Hey, you forgot to get this back,” the man said, and without the humming of the plane, Stiles realized his voice could have been pulled out of a porn video. Or the other end of a sex hotline.

Good genes, clearly.

Stiles gaped at him, confused, and then saw the white iPod dangling from the man’s outstretched hand. Shutting his mouth with a snap, he held up a finger. Window Man nodded, looking slightly annoyed, but shifted his focus away from Stiles and to the Departures board.

“Stiles?” his dad was saying on the other end, and Stiles cleared his throat.

“Yeah, Dad, I’m sorry but—I have to go. I’ll call you when I find out more, ok?” They hung up, and Stiles turned to face Window Man with his cheeks burning. “Sorry about that,” he said, and Window Man turned his green gaze back to him. He handed over Stiles’ iPod, which the younger man pocketed with fumbling fingers.

“Some plane ride, yeah?” Stiles said, suddenly feeling nervous, and the man shook his head in annoyance.

“Stupid weather,” he said with a sigh, and Stiles couldn’t help but nod in agreement. “Have you seen that all the flights are canceled?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, lamely, and then blushed again. He waved his hands around spastically, motioning to the airport roof and interior. “Guess I’ll just have to sleep here.”

“You don’t seem like the kind who sleeps,” Window Man said, eye Stiles’ tapping foot, and Stiles forced it to still. Seconds later, it was tapping again.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, suddenly annoyed at Window Man’s lack of polite conversation, “thanks again for the iPod. Totally forgot it, and whatnot. Couldn’t dare leave that baby behind. Good luck finding a flight.” He meant the last part. No one should be stuck in an airport-- not even the kind of people who didn't own a goddamn iPod. Thinking on it, Window Man was probably one of those hipsters who only owned record players and turned their noses up at such "modern technology."

 _Well, even good, iPod-owning citizens like me get stuck,_ he thought, self-pitying, and looked down at his useless ticket until Window Man stalked away. He glanced up to watch him go, noticing the broad curve of his shoulders under his black leather jacket. He was hot. Too bad he didn’t seem skilled in social… well, anything. Still, it was impossible to deny that he was one fine piece of booty. Window Man’s jeans fit well, but Stiles couldn’t tell if it was because they were expensive or because _everything_ probably fit well on that ass.

Forcing his mind to come out of the gutter, Stiles turned the opposite direction and began to wander forlornly through the airport. He glanced longingly at the bars, wishing desperately he was two years old and allowed to indulge, but settled instead for a Big Mac at the nearest McDonalds. He could only imagine the aneurysm his father would have if he saw Stiles eating fries while he was forced to munch away on carrot sticks and veggie burgers.

Hours passed, uneventful and slogging by. Bored, Stiles turned on his iPod. His eyebrows raised when he saw the song that Window Man had been listening to. How he had managed to find the one classical song Stiles owned, the brunette did not know. It made him feel even more humiliated as he realized just how different their taste in music probably was-- and that he was probably right with his theory of Window Man being a hipster. Regardless, the fact that Stiles had managed to shame himself while trying to be cordial was a nice summary of his life.

Now that the adrenaline from the plane were starting to dim down, Stiles couldn’t help but wish he had managed to talk a bit to the guy. Stiles knew that his hyperactivity often drew the attention of people, so was it really Window Man’s fault for being interested? Stiles probably would have asked if someone had been acting as strange as he was, too. He could only have imagined what he had looked like on the plane. But it wasn’t his fault—that had been his first plane ride since four years ago, since the funeral. He wasn’t supposed to be unaffected, isn’t that what his therapist had said?

With a sigh, Stiles got up from the table, tossing his burger wrapper into a nearby trash can. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he started wandering around once more. He wished he had someone, anyone, to talk to. He tried calling Scott, and then Isaac, but with no luck. They were probably partying, now that he thought about it. He thought again of Window Man, of his green eyes, and wished he had just ignored his rudeness and followed him. At least he would have had something to do. _Boredom is a killing thing, Stiles_.

There were so many people, even though it was nearly 7 at night, and attendants were flitting to and fro between groups in an attempt to keep some semblance of control over the steadily rising frustration of delayed passengers. Stiles slung his bag in front of him, undoing the zipper and pulling out his camera case. He had brought along one of his smaller Nikon D40 cameras to take a shoot of his high school crush, Lydia, who was now his best long-distance friend. Currently faced with hours of time at the airport and many more until he could sleep, he was grateful to have brought it.

His mentor, Erica, had mentioned that he needed to start broadening his scope past just portraits. Erica was older than him, maybe thirty (he didn’t know exactly, because who the hell would ask that?), and Stiles was incredibly lucky to have her as an insider into the business. He _mostly_ followed her advice.

Usually.

Ok, sometimes.

Anyways, he had some karma to earn back and some gold star stickers he needed to score with her. What better time to please Erica then now? What else was he going to do?

He was bending over, taking a photo of the tent-like roof of the airport, when he decided that he needed a better angle. As he scooted back, he nearly fell over backwards as he collided with someone who was walking by. There was an awkward tangle and flail of limbs as Stiles righted himself, turning around with his arms cradling his camera protectively. “I am so sorry—” he began, and then stopped short and gazed with wide eyes as Window Man straightened up. He looked just as surprised as Stiles, his thick eyebrows raised.

“No, I wasn’t looking,” Window Man said, brushing invisible dust off his leather jacket, and Stiles shrugged.

“Neither was I,” he admitted, grinning as nonchalantly as possible. He motioned to the roof. “I was too busy shooting the architecture.”

Window Man was examining the camera curiously. His eyes flicked up to Stiles’ face. “You shoot often?”

“It’s my profession,” Stiles explained, and was surprised when Window Man looked interested.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Stiles gaped at him. “Oh, I, er,” he blustered, and gripped his camera a little tighter. His palms were suddenly sweaty. He hadn’t shown his photos to a stranger before. “They aren’t very good, I’m still in training,” he said, embarrassed, but Window Man shrugged.

“I’ve never taken a professional photo in my life, so you have me beat,” he said, and Stiles realized that the man was actually engaging him in real conversation. Nervously, he handed his camera over. It was like handing both his baby and his soul to someone else; Stiles considered his art very personal. Yet what else was there to do? He would never see this man again, anyways. Why not get some "constructive feedback", as Erika was always calling it?

He couldn’t help but stare at Window Man’s hands as he took the Nikon; they looked strong, and his fingers were large.

Stiles fidgeted as the man's eyes slid over some of his photos. He didn’t know which ones were being looked at, and his stomach tightened when he thought of the pictures he had done, with Erica’s help, for Victoria’s Secret a few months ago. Were they still on there? That’s just what he needed: for this guy to think he was a plane-fearing porn photographer with a kink for polka dots and lace. And the word “PINK.”

But Window Man was nodding appreciatively. “These are really good,” he said, and Stiles leaned forward a bit to see which one he was looking at. It was of Lydia, dressed in a striking red top and dark jeans. She had heels on, as always, and her hair cascaded down her back in long waves. Stiles remembered how frustrating the wind had been that day; it took hours for them to find a place where strands of hair weren’t floating into her mascara.

“Girlfriend?” Window Man asked, and Stiles shook his head quickly.

“Best friend,” he said, truthfully, and the man nodded. Stiles couldn’t tell if it was at Lydia, or at his response. There was a beat of silence, and Stiles decided to put himself out there. He stuck out his hand. “Stiles,” he said, and after a pause Window Man grabbed it.

“Derek.” His grip was strong, his fingers slightly calloused. Heat poured off his skin. They shook, and Stiles wasn’t sure if he imagined it but he felt like it was a big longer than normal. Derek handed him back his camera.

“No luck finding any flights?” Stiles asked him, uncomfortable with a potential silence, and Derek shook his head.

“No. I called my friend –she’s an airline attendant—and she said all flights are canceled because of this weather.” They both glanced outside the windows; the storm outside had only gotten worse. Stiles sighed.

“At least it isn’t a tornado, or a fire,” he tried to joke, and Derek just raised an eyebrow. There was a brief silence, and then Stiles opened his mouth because he was good at that. “Hopefully it calms down by morning. There isn’t anything to do.”

Derek shrugged. “There are a few things I brought, but it’s still not how I would want to spend my time. I was about to try and relax a bit.”

“Sounds fun,” Stiles said, unsure of what to say, and there was another awkward silence.

Derek coughed. “Fancy a drink?” he asked, and Stiles felt his cheeks burn again. Derek was offering to get a drink with him? Why? They had only just met, and Stiles recalled his distinct impression on the plane that Derek had been annoyed by him. _Boredom is a killing thing?_ he thought again, and decided to stick with that. He didn’t know how to interpret the invitation, but he couldn’t accept it regardless.

“I can’t,” he said. At Derek’s questioning look, he added, “I’m only 19. No drinks for this guy. I get to wait two more years before I find myself stumbling around and making an idiot out of myself. More of an idiot.” He made a face, and felt his chest heat up pleasantly when a small smile once again tugged at Derek’s mouth. Stiles liked his mouth. A lot. Plus, maybe Derek didn’t hate him, after all-- so at least the night wasn't a total bust.

“Drinking isn’t as fun as they tell you in college,” Derek told him, and Stiles resisted opening his mouth and telling him that he had never gone to college. He hadn’t needed it. Stiles’ artistic abilities had been clear by the time he was in middle school, and after meeting Erica through a program that took on mentees in the art industry, he had opted to find his way in the vibrant world of San Fran instead of being cooped up studying books. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, he wasn’t calm or focused enough to read a novel front to back. SparkNotes and Lydia’s summaries had been his friends all throughout high school. Trailing along at Erica’s shoots and getting his name out there was plenty for him.

Instead, Stiles just shrugged in response. He glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of a coffee stand not too far away. “How about a different kind of drink?” he asked, and Derek followed his gaze towards the shop.

“Sure.”

Derek ordered a straight black coffee and Stiles couldn’t help but make a face at him. Derek was defensive. “I don’t need anything diluting the flavor,” he said, and Stiles scoffed.

“It’s called _enhancing_ the flavor,” he shot back, and Derek rolled his eyes with a scowl. He turned to wait at the end counter, and Stiles snuck a look at his muscled arms before placing his own order, a Mexican Mocha with an extra shot and extra whipped cream.

“I can’t believe you’re getting _more_ caffeine and sugar,” Derek said, watching in disbelief as Stiles brought the concoction over to the table he had grabbed. “From what I can see, you don’t need the extra energy.”

“If you knew me well,” Stiles said, smirking, “then you would know I live on this stuff.”

“Everything is making sense now,” Derek drawled, but Stiles ignored him.

“Besides, I’m stuck at an airport. I might as well indulge. You’re the one drinking the black sludge.” He stuck his finger into the whipped cream, taking off a small cloud and popping it into his mouth. He ran his tongue around his lips, humming in satisfaction. Whipped cream was one of Stiles’ weaknesses.

He realized Derek was staring at him.

“What?” he asked, and Derek seemed to be brought back to reality.

“Nothing. So you’re 19?”

“Don’t remind me,” Stiles grumbled, and Derek’s mouth twitched up. Stiles eyed him up and down. “And how old are you?”

“25.”

Wow, ok. Way to crash all of Stiles’ hopes and dreams. Send magical hot mystery man into his life and voila, he is six years older. _God isn’t your fan, Stiles,_ he said to himself, and wondered if he could manage a stroke of good luck if he repented for being Atheist the past ten years. Maybe if he sacrificed a virgin to some trees near Beacon Hills when he went back for the holidays, he could get some good karma. 

“Oh,” he replied, and Derek raised an eyebrow at him. He didn’t want to explain, so he switched topics. “And what do you do for a living?”

“Music.”

“Oh, what kind?”

“I’m trained in piano, but I’m picking up the drums as well.”

 _Hipster_.

“So that means you’re out in the big bad world, putting out your work, yeah?”

Derek took a sip of his coffee. “You could call it that.”

“Do you do covers, or write your own songs?”

“Depends.”

Silence filled the air. Stiles was realizing that Derek wasn’t one for talking a lot. When it became unbearable, Stiles clapped his hands in front of him and leaned forward. Derek looked at him in confusion.

“How do you feel,” Stiles asked, “about cilantro?”

Derek blinked a few times. “What?”

“You know, the green stuff they put on Mexican food?”

“It’s disgusting,” Derek responded after a moment of contemplation. “Tastes like soap.”

“What about blue cheese?”

“Why all the food questions?”

“Why not?” Stiles asked, grinning, and Derek stared at him for a few moments again. Stiles ran his tongue around the rim of the coffee cup, getting the remaining bits of whipped cream as he waited for Derek to reply. When he glanced up, he blushed when he found Derek watching him again.

“I like blue cheese. I make a good pizza with it.” It really shouldn’t have been that significant of a statement, but Stiles’ interest was piqued as he imagined Derek during an average day, just cooking. In bed with him, whispering into his ear. He imagined his muscles tensing against Stiles, the callouses on his hands providing friction for fast, powerful strokes. Derek’s hands were large; they could grab him just right—

Not the time for this.

Stiles pushed the thoughts aside, scooting his chair closer to the table in an attempt to distract his increasingly interested dick. “I have a funny story about pizza, now that you mention it…”

* * *

 

Derek was laughing, really laughing, and Stiles was feeling proud.  This was coffee round number three, and Stiles could tell that the people at the counter were getting impatient with them. Stiles had been telling stories all night, with Derek interjecting a few comments here and there.

“And so Scott decided it would be a good idea to jump off the roof, you know, so that Kira’s dad wouldn’t catch them making out. He ended up breaking his foot, and her mom was the one to fix it. He was in so much trouble with Ms. McCall,” Stiles finished, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“Sounds like a high school boy,” he said, and Stiles’ heart picked up speed at the warmth in Derek’s voice. That emotional openness... he liked it. He liked it a lot. “Are they still together?”

“Going strong,” Stiles said, grinning. His phone buzzed, startling both of them. Stiles grabbed it quickly, glancing at the text. Lately, texts hadn’t been good news; it was always Danny with some new problem, or Isaac texting him another apology for outing him at that club a month ago. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was just his dad wishing him safe travels. He glanced at the clock; his dad must have been on a night shift, because it was already 1 A.M.

Derek seemed to realize this at the same time. “It’s late,” he said, and Stiles nodded. A wave of tiredness his him, and he barely managed to stifle a yawn.

“I wonder if there is anywhere to sleep,” he muttered, and Derek nodded.

“I think I passed some before I bumped into you,” he said, and grabbed his wallet from where it was lying on the table. Stiles did the same, slipping his into his backpack. He did so slowly, because he was suddenly faced with the uncertainty of how to proceed. Should he follow Derek? Would that be weird? Were the sleeping in the same space, or was this the end of their interaction? Derek didn’t know Stiles was bi, and Stiles didn’t know if Derek swung towards men. Not that it mattered if Derek only wanted to be friends, or just two people who kinda-sorta knew each other; but Stiles was on unsteady ground, not sure what Derek wanted at all, if anything.

Derek solved the dilemma for him. “You coming?” he asked, and Stiles quickly zipped up his backpack.

“Yeah, yeah, slow down sourwolf. We have hours.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at him as they exited the coffee shop. “Sourwolf?”

Stiles waved his arms around in an attempted explanation. “Yeah, you know, because you’re so dark and hairy and shit.”

“I’m not dark _or_ hairy,” Derek argued, subconsciously reaching up to rub at his stubble, and Stiles grinned at him.

“Oh, so you’re just a big teddy bear on the inside?” he cooed, and Derek glared at him. "Ok, not a teddy bear,” he said, wincing dramatically at the look, and Derek rolled his eyes.

They sat down in some chairs near a window, which weren’t comfortable but we better than the hard floor. Derek sighed, leaning back the best he could and taking off his leather jacket so he could put it over his eyes. Stiles forced himself not to look at the layers of muscles that sculpted the older man’s body, instead bending over and retrieving his iPod out of his bag. He also tugged out his pillow, which had taken up the majority of the space in his backpack, and slipped his camera snuggly into the bag.

As he shifted a few times to try and get comfortable, Derek shifted as well. Their toes touched and Stiles jumped as if burned. His cheeks were aflame as he drew his legs in closer. It wasn’t a big thing, and Derek didn’t even seem to have noticed, but Stiles’ heart was pumping fast. _This is why you don’t get nice things,_ he chastised himself, and shifted a bit more.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and Derek shrugged.

“No big deal.” He had allowed one eye to be exposed under the jacket. “Did you seriously bring a pillow?”

Stiles blushed again. He couldn’t sleep without his pillow, never had been able to. Normally he didn’t care if people found out; but for some reason, he cared about what Derek thought. It was incredibly unsettling that one person was affecting him so much. He supposed that, after hanging out mainly with Scott and Isaac for so long, he wasn’t used to questions about his life and habits. “Yes, yes I did,” he said, trying to sound confident and not as nervous as he really felt. “Pillow, meet Derek. Derek, Pillow.”

He was surprised when Derek let out a chuckle, pulling the jacket over his eyes once more. “Yeah, ok. See you tomorrow, Stiles.”

Stiles couldn’t help a grin from spreading over his face. Derek would be hanging with him until tomorrow morning, then. He felt bubbly and, humming lightly to the song filling his ears, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He awoke to someone gently touching his shoulder. Sunlight was streaming in from the large windows onto his face, and he squinted against it as he sleepily bolted into a sitting position. “Wha?” he mumbled, disoriented, and blinked a few times to clear his eyes.

“Hey,” said a voice, and Stiles looked to his left to see Derek stretching next to him. Confused, he looked around; and then he remembered he was still in the airport. His stomach plummeted. _Shit._

“Oh god, what time is it?” he asked, scrambling around for his phone, and Derek slipped his out of his pocket.

“Only 7AM.”

Stiles swore. His meeting was at 2PM today, and he had to make it through San Fran traffic in a taxi in order to get there. Erica was going to be so disappointed, and Stiles couldn’t stand that. He had been so excited to tell Erica that Victoria Secret had called him and asked for another shoot, just with Stiles because his work had been so good; but if he was late, Erica probably wouldn’t care. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said under his breath, and Derek stood up as Stiles did.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have a shoot at 2 today,” Stiles said, distractedly running his hands through his hair. “By now all the early flights will be booked. _Shit._ The flight will take like four hours, and then there is traffic—”

“You don’t need to worry,” Derek said, and Stiles turned to him in confusion. Derek motioned to his phone. “My friend found me a seat on an 8AM today, and I had her grab you one too.”

Stiles stopped in his tracks. For once, he was completely speechless. He stared at Derek with wide eyes, who suddenly seemed to be uncomfortable.

“I figured you would want to get out as soon as possible—if that is a problem then we can always cancel it—”

“Yes! I mean! No!” Stiles said, his mouth finally working. “No! That’s just—I’m just amazed, that’s all. Thanks, man.” He was sincere.

Derek’s muscles relaxed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away from Stiles. “No problem,” he grunted. “I didn’t even do any of the work. It was all her.”

“Well then tell her she saved my life,” Stiles said, feeling as if he was walking on air. “How much do I owe you?”

Derek glanced over at the McDonalds nearby. He seemed to hesitate. Then he said, slowly, “How about coffee and breakfast?”

Stiles was horrified. “No, I can’t do that, that kind of a high-demand ticket probably cost hundreds more than what my original seat was worth—”

Derek waved his hand. “I travel a ton, I have lots of points. I never use them anyways. Musicians don’t take vacations.” Stiles started to protest again, but Derek glared at him. “Just take it, Stiles. It seriously isn’t a big deal. It was convenient to set up.”

With a sigh, Stiles relented. “Then tell her she’s saved my life _and_ my housing bill,” he muttered, and the older man chuckled. He didn’t know how he would manage to pay Derek back, but he was determined he would. He had until the end of the flight home to figure it out.

* * *

 

The flight was, just as Stiles knew it would be, terrible. He could barely open his mouth from when he got on to when they landed. It had been smooth, the storm from the day before completely gone, but his stomach had been in knots the whole time nonetheless. He and Derek had been seated next to each other, and Stiles couldn’t decide if it had soothed his nerves or simply increased them. Because Derek was cool, one of the coolest people Stiles had met outside of his normal friend group, and he couldn’t help but want to see more of him. And that made Stiles anxious. Very anxious. So did the idea of either passing out or throwing up on him, which, being realistic, were both totally likely.

Derek had opened his book as soon as they sat down, retreating behind the steel grey cover lined with wine red stitching. Stiles had closed his eyes at that point, leaning back and trying to breathe. He wanted to think of anything but where he was. Which, of course, didn’t work, even when he put on his iPod and blasted the music so loudly that he could _feel_ Derek’s annoyed gaze on him. He kept his eyes closed, though, because _hear no evil, see no evil,_ yeah?

Needless to say, the landing was a relief.

It was with shaky legs that Stiles walked out of the plane, breathing in the smell of San Francisco that was present even inside the airport. The fact that he contemplated kissing the ground should have disturbed him more, but he was distracted. He had gotten out first (Derek had stowed a bag in the upper compartment and therefore had been forced to take the time to retrieve it), and he hovered between whether he should wait for the older man or just leave now. If he waited, he risked looking like a desperate puppy dog. But if he left, he would never see Derek again.

He decided to wait.

Derek walked out, his bag slung over his shoulder, and when he saw Stiles he could have sworn a small smile passed over the older man’s lips. Derek walked straight over to him and Stiles tried to remember how to breathe as those forest green eyes look at his.

“So where are you off to now?” Derek asked, and Stiles glanced at his phone as they started walking towards the exit. He had enough time to zip home, shower, and make himself presentable enough to shoot for Maybelline.

“Outskirts of Castro district,” he said, thinking longingly of the apartment he shared with Scott. It was the best home away from home that he could have found outside of Beacon Hills. “You?”

Derek seemed to be thinking. “Same area, actually,” he said, and Stiles looked at him in surprise. Seeing his face, Derek elaborated. “I know someone who lives there, and I promised I would stop by.”

“Oh, who—” Stiles began, curiosity overcoming his manners as he thought about all the people it could be, but was cut off by the sound of a phone going off. The ringtone was a piano version of Clarity. Derek looked at the caller ID and flipped it open immediately.

“Cora?”

Stiles could hear the voice of a woman on the other end. He looked around the airport to distract himself as the voice blabbered away. Well, there went his chance. He didn't want to assume Derek was straight and involved with someone but... well, how could the guy not be?  _You never stood a chance, Stiles,_ his mind whispered, and he sighed. It was ridiculous, he knew; he and Derek weren’t even _friends._ He had just met the guy yesterday. But he had felt like things were going well, that Derek was actually beginning to talk to him like a normal person.

“We can talk more about that later,” Derek said, gruffly, and Stiles glanced over at him curiously. The man seemed tense, his jaw clenched. The woman started talking again, but Derek interrupted her. “I don’t have time for this right now, Cora. I’m about to catch a taxi.”

He hung up. Stiles felt a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “One hell of a way to talk to your girlfriend,” he commented, and Derek looked horrified.

“Oh, god, that’s my sister,” he said, the words seeming to come out in a rush, and warmth once again filled Stiles’ chest. He tried to shut it down; after all, he had already concluded that Derek was probably straight and even if he did swing towards men, he was way out of Stiles’ league. But the news still made him smile (at the very least because, judging by the horrified reaction, it meant Derek wouldn't treat a girlfriend like shit if he had one).

There was silence as they walked together, matching pace, and suddenly Stiles stopped. “Wait,” he said, “you need to catch a taxi?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, one eyebrow raised, clearly confused as to why this was new information. “I’m not exactly rich, so I don’t have a car. I usually run or catch a taxi to where I need to go.”

Stiles pushed out the visual of Derek running shirtless, sweat coating his muscles as he powered up the hills of San Fran. “Since we are going to the same place…” Stiles said, and suddenly trailed off. His throat felt dry, and his hands were sweating. _Get ahold of yourself, Stiles. It’s not like you are inviting him back to your room._ Derek was looking at him, and Stiles blurted the rest of the words out. “Want to maybe share the cab, then?” He nearly tripped over his own feet when, after a moment’s consideration, Derek nodded. His heart pounding furiously in his ears, he walked alongside the older man as they made their way to the taxis.

* * *

 

“Well, then,” Stiles said, shifting awkwardly from side to side as he gazed up at the building, “this is my place.”

The taxi ride had gone well. So well, in fact, that they had laughed almost the entire way and he had even found out about Derek’s sister, Cora, and how she once put a goat in the principal’s office after he got Derek in trouble for beating up a bully. Now they were both out on the street, the cab zipping off around the corner, and Stiles didn’t know what to do. He glanced at his watch; he had about an hour to get ready and go. But he didn’t want Derek to leave. He _liked_ Derek, not only as someone who he could see himself having sex with but as a person in general. He liked the way he smiled and the green of his eyes and the stubble across his chin, he liked how Derek was sometimes shy but clearly cared about his work and his family. He wanted Derek to stay.

But he only had an hour left, and he didn’t even know why Derek had come this far with him. He was startled out of his thoughts when Derek stuck out his hand. Stiles reached forward and gripped it, briefly.

“Good luck, Stiles,” Derek said, and Stiles chewed anxiously on his lip.

“Yeah—yeah, thank you. You too, man. Good meeting you. Uh, sorry that it had to be on an airplane, and all.”

Derek nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for the airport company.” There was a moment of awkward silence, with both of them hovering on the sidewalk. Then Derek turned his head to look behind him. “Well, I’ll let you go now.”

He started to turn, taking a few steps down the street.

Stiles didn’t know what came over him, but his mind knew that this was someone who he wanted to be in his life, at least a little, and so he bolted after him.

“Hold on—” he began, but as he stepped forward Derek suddenly turned around with a conflicted look on his face.

“Actually—” Derek said, at the same time, and they collided with each other. Stiles stumbled; running into Derek was like hitting a brick wall. He groaned and took a step back, feeling a hand clutch around his bicep to steady him. With a jolt, he realized Derek was the one supporting him.

They both started to say something at the same time, then stopped in unison. Derek seemed to realize his hand was still on Stiles’ arm and he withdrew it quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets again. Stiles ran a hand through his hair, grinning sheepishly as his ears lit up.

“Sorry, what were you going to say?” he asked, feeling breathless, and Derek cleared his throat.

“Well…” he said, and then let out a slow breath. “I saw that you had some music on your iPod, songs that I’m doing covers on at this gig next Friday night.” Stiles’ heart leapt. “I was figuring I would invite you and your roommate along—his name was Scout, was it—”

“Scott,” Stiles said automatically, and then snapped his mouth shut.

“Right,” Derek said, looking like he was feeling very flustered and awkward. “Scott. Well. It’s always nice to have PR, and the band likes it when we get new people to come, so… yeah.”

Stiles realized he was waiting for a response. “Oh! Oh, yeah, no—I mean, yes. Yes, that would be awesome. Um—” he rifled through his pockets for a piece of paper, pulling out the plane ticket from the canceled flight, “—here, I’ll give you my number and you can just text me the location, yeah?” He stopped short, and looked up at Derek to scan him over. “Umm, you do text, right?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m not from the last century. Of course I text.”

"Dude, you _don't own an iPod,_ " Stiles said, and Derek scowled. He silently held out his hand for the paper, sheepishness showing through in his eyes, and Stiles wrote his number on it as clearly as he could. Derek took it and, folding it carefully, put it into his jean pocket.

Derek nodded to him. “See you around, then.”

“Cool,” Stiles said, and this time he really _did_ sound breathless. He coughed. “Alright, well, then; I guess I’ll pop by your gig, you know, if I have time that Friday night.”

At this, Derek raised an eyebrow. A small smile tugged at his lips once more. “Yeah, if you can fit it into your schedule,” he said, green eyes gazing into Stiles’, and then he turned around and walked down the street.


	2. Chapter 2

“You said _if you have time?_ ” Lydia demanded, and Stiles groaned into the microphone. It was Monday night, the day after his shoot at Maybelline, and Stiles was filling her in on what had happened over the weekend.

“It wasn’t my best line.”

“Stiles,” she chastised, and Stiles groaned again.

“I know, I know!” he sighed, and buried his face in his hands. “He totally caught me off guard, though.” So had Derek’s text, which he had received just earlier that afternoon. It had been short and to the point: the time, location, and a small part saying that he hoped Stiles could make it. The last part had Stiles attempting to analyze every word in the hopes of finding out _why_ exactly Derek wanted him to make it.

“Why?” Lydia demanded, and he looked up at her in confusion. She rolled her eyes. “Stiles, babe, come _on._ He chased after you to give you back your iPod, drank coffee with you for _hours,_ booked you a flight that he did not allow you to pay for despite him saying he is broke, and then he took a taxi with you. He’s totally into you.”

“It’s true!” Stiles heard Scott yell from down the hallway, where he was cleaning a stain off the wall, and he swiveled in his chair so he could flip him off in the gap between the doorway. Scott grinned wickedly at him—or, at least, as wickedly as Scott _could_ grin, which fell somewhere between the spectrum of innocent bystander and puppy that chewed through your leather shoe.

“I don’t even know if he’s gay,” Stiles said miserably, and turned back to Lydia. “And even if he was, why would he go for me? He’s way out of my league, you should have _seen_ him.” She pursed her lips at him and tutted.

“Honestly Stiles, you must be blind. No one is out of your league, ok?” He shook his head. She leaned forward, giving him a nice view of her perfectly-done makeup. “Fine, you can think what you want, but I know that he’s interested. His actions _scream_ bi, if not gay. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even have a friend in the Castro district. He probably just made it up so he had an excuse to stay with you.”

“That’s what I told him!” Scott called from the hallway again, and Stiles groaned.

“Stop it!” he told both of them, and they sighed in unison. “He’s just a friend who invited me to his gig, ok? No, not even a friend. We are _acquaintances._ ”

“Who happen to want to shag each other,” Lydia interjected, and Stiles closed the laptop on her indignant face. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. A moment later, his phone pinged.

 **Rude,** her text read, and Stiles chuckled despite himself. He sent back a photo of the Seattle Seahawks poster on his wall, the team she hated with every fiber of her being, and got a glorious **Fuck you, sweetie** in reply. A moment later, she sent another one. **Don’t worry about Derek. Have fun tomorrow!**

He had entirely forgotten that he was going a photoshoot for the Museum of Modern Art tomorrow. It was a big-deal, black-tie event, and Stiles had to admit he was nervous. It was his first one ever without Erica to guide him. He would be photographing the awards party, which was held just once every ten years there. His job was to snap a few photos of the guests, the food, the speakers; nothing too huge, but Stiles knew that if he pulled it off he would get some good clients from it. But now he couldn’t even focus, he was so busy thinking about Derek.

He heard Scott poke his way into the room. His best friend’s hand fell onto his shoulder. “Hey, man, this is good,” he said, patting his shoulder a few times. Stiles put his head in his hands again, shaking it back and forth.

“He probably isn’t even gay, and then I’ll be the creepy bi kid who has a crush on the hetero man.”

Scott pat his shoulder uselessly again. “Have faith, bro.”

Stiles scoffed. Lately, faith hadn’t done much for him.

* * *

 

Ok, so maybe faith was working now.

Stiles had just snapped a perfect photo of the head of the Museum of Modern Art, smiling and shaking hands with one of the donors, and he knew that he had sealed the deal. When he had walked in, an hour early so that he could acclimate to the crystal chandeliers and funky lighting, he had been rather overwhelmed. It was like being in a ballroom out of Cinderella (and yes, Stiles had watched that movie, he didn’t like to advertise that information though), although smaller in size and with various antique art pictures on the wall that Stiles knew cost more than the expense of all his friends’ college educations combined. It was too classy for him to be comfortable, and he had spent plenty of time tugging at his black tie and making sure he wasn’t sweating through the fancy black jacket that was over his white button-up. But after the room was filled with more guests, happy chatter smoothed out the air, and soft piano music drifted from the corner in a soothing melody, Stiles had gotten into his grove and begun snapping away with his Nikon D800.

He straightened up, taking a few photos of the pink floral bouquets that lay on the appetizer table, careful not to bump into a woman wearing a professional blue dress that was situated near him. He glanced over at the corner, where the beautiful baby grand stood, and figured it wouldn’t hurt to snap a few of the player.

As he moved across the room, the sound of a microphone being turned on and the piano music fading made him pause temporarily. The head of MoMA was on the small stage, smiling slightly. “Before we begin,” he said, “I would like to thank our wonderful piano player.” There were a few nods, and a small clattering of applause. Stiles turned his head as the piano player stood up—

_No way._

It was _Derek,_ dressed in a sharp black suit with a white shirt and forest green tie, which Stiles knew matched his eyes even though he wasn’t close enough to know by anything but memory. Stiles couldn’t help gaping in shock, the camera and his reason for being here completely forgotten as he gazed at Derek. Derek looked stoic, his face void of emotion as his eyes traveled around the room. The guests turned their heads back to the stage as the speech about the history of the museum began, but Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the older man.

Derek was starting to sit down, accepting a glass of wine from a nearby waiter, when he looked up one last time. Their eyes met, and Derek did a double-take. An expression of pure shock crossed his face, and he lowered the glass that he was about to sip from as if it had burned his mouth. Stiles, in a moment of pure stupidity, waved his hand slightly and mouthed, “Hi.” He wanted to hide under a particularly poofy dress the second after. Derek was clearly still surprised, and it took him a few moments of blinking before he seemed to come back into the present. He nodded to Stiles, one eyebrow raised curiously. Stiles motioned to his camera, and then to the stage, and Derek nodded in understanding.

Stiles suddenly remembered that he was being paid for this, that he wasn’t here just to stare at Derek’s biceps, and he quickly turned back to the stage and started snapping away photos frantically. He could barely focus, though, knowing that Derek was just half a room away and most likely watching him. Wait, was he watching him? Stiles snuck a glance at the older man and felt his ears heat up: yes, Derek was most definitely looking at him. Thank _god_ Erica wasn’t here; she would be teasing him in seconds.

As the first award was given and Stiles snapped a photo of the beaming woman coming onto the stage, he tried to shimmy his way over to the piano. Derek was no longer looking at him, seeming to be fully focused on the stage now. A full acceptance speech later, Stiles had managed to get close without getting any strange looks or drawing attention to himself, which was a first for him.

As applause filled the room, Stiles looked over at Derek with one eye, his other still pressed against the viewfinder of his camera. “Hey,” he muttered, trying not to be loud, and Derek turned his head.

“Stiles. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Derek said, and Stiles couldn’t figure out if the older man sounded upset or nonchalant. It seemed like a strange mix of the two, maybe with some nervousness added in.

“Same here,” Stiles whispered, taking another photo of the room full of people and the PowerPoint displayed against one of the walls. “I mean—not about me being here, of course. I meant seeing you here and—yeah.” He trailed off lamely, cursing his amazing capacity to blabber and dig himself into a hole of embarrassment. The next speech began, and they were quiet as a man humbly accepted his award for Outstanding Leadership and Management in the Past Ten Years. Stiles was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake by coming over to Derek, because he was probably being annoying, when Derek spoke next to him.

“Did the photos from your shoot turn out well?” he asked, his voice hushed but loud enough to hear over the applause as the man walked off stage.

Stiles felt himself smile warmly, oddly flattered that Derek had remembered. “I think it went really well. It was a really diverse group and my mentor, Erica, had worked with them before. They don’t even want much Photoshopping, just a few pores smoothed out.” Derek nodded, and Stiles couldn’t help but think that he could have answered that question in far less words. “What about you? How was meeting your—er, friend?” he asked, rather lamely, and Derek shrugged.

They were forced into silence for an hour after, award after award being presented on stage. Stiles tried to snap at least twenty photos for each one, knowing he would hate himself later when he was going through them and editing, but needing a distraction to keep his eyes off of Derek. He didn’t know how Derek could be sitting so still, doing nothing, as the awards went on. Even in high school assemblies, Stiles had nearly vibrated out of his skin from having to sit. But Derek remained composed, quiet, his eyes flicking between the stage and Stiles.

Finally, it was over. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief as guests started filing out, happy chatter once again permeating through the air. Derek had stood up, stretching his back slightly, and Stiles forced himself not to look at his ass as the older man bent over. Instead, he skipped through a few of the photos he had taken, pleased that the white balance and exposure seemed to be consistent throughout. He had barely even needed to adjust his settings.

He suddenly realized that Derek hadn’t even been needed after the first part of the ceremony. “Why did they make you stay, if you weren’t even playing later?” he asked Derek, who seemed taken aback by the question. He opened his mouth to reply, a slightly flustered look on his face, but they were interrupted.

“Mr. Stilinski,” said a voice behind him, and Stiles turned to see the head of financing smiling at him with glossed lips. She shook his hand, her grip firm. “How did the photos seem to turn out?”

“They’ll be beautiful,” Stiles assured her, smiling. “This is a fantastic setting. I can get them to you by the end of next week.” It was a huge task to complete, and Stiles knew that he would have a few late nights, but he had learned long ago that clients didn’t like to be kept waiting, particularly with someone new. This was his first real, we-will-give-you-all-the-money-instead-of-giving-80%-of-it-to-Erica job in a while, so he wasn’t going to disappoint.

“Wonderful,” she said, smiling at him. “Send them to my email.” She handed him her business card, and then looked behind Stiles. She seemed surprised. “Mr. Hale,” she said, and Stiles nearly jumped a foot in the air when Derek stepped next to him. Their arms touched and, feeling panicky, Stiles shifted from foot to foot and began tapping his fingers against the side of his camera. “Thank you so much for preforming for us,” she said, and Derek nodded. He wasn’t smiling, his face impassive, and Stiles wondered why.

“It was my pleasure,” Derek said, and she smiled at him. She pulled a check out of her pocket, handing it over. Derek folded it up without even looking at the amount. “Thank you,” he said, and she smiled again.

“Well, if you will excuse me,” she said, and left. Stiles had started to put away his camera gear while Derek had been talking, carefully detaching the lens and placing it like a baby into its holder. Derek was grabbing a thin leaflet of music from the piano, quiet and reserved-looking. Debating between waiting for him or just leaving, Stiles once again decided to wait. Derek turned and, seeing Stiles was still there, seemed taken aback once more. But his face relaxed, his posture seeming to soften, and he walked over.

“Want to share a cab again?” Stiles asked, sounding braver than he felt, and Derek nodded. He shoved his music into his pockets and pulled out his phone. Stiles knew Derek was checking the time. It wasn’t too late, only about 7pm, but traffic would still be terrible.

“Yeah, why not?” he replied, and Stiles couldn’t help but smile. They walked out of MoMA together, the sky a deep shade of blue as twilight fell. There was a small wind, but Stiles shrugged off his jacket anyways. He let out a happy sigh as he loosened his tie, the air hitting his neck for the first time in hours.

“So stuffy,” he complained, and saw Derek’s mouth twitch up for a brief second. “I’ve never been to an event that serious, not even Prom. Prom at my school wasn’t usually a black-tie affair. My Junior year it was tie-dye, and we had it in this loft that was near the woods. There were flashing lights and a disco ball and stuff.” He realized he was blabbering again, and glanced over at his companion. Derek was looking at him, actually seeming slightly interested, and Stiles continued on enthusiastically.

By the time he had described the mess that was Danny and Ethan, the transfer student from Chicago, they had made it to the main streets. Derek was looking incredulous. “There’s no way that happened,” he said, and Stiles made an indignant noise.

“I’m telling you, it’s true! His twin ended up hooking up with Lydia, but none of us knew he had a twin that was visiting, so we all thought it was Ethan. You can imagine the hysterics,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes, and he actually got a smirk out of Derek. There was a moment of silence as Stiles looked up and down the street for cabs, partially blinded by the lights of the cars streaming by.

“Come on, taxi,” he muttered to himself, annoyed.

“Actually,” Derek said, suddenly, and Stiles stopped his search as his head snapped to the older man. He looked slightly nervous, and he wasn’t looking at Stiles. “Are you…” he trailed off, and then coughed. “Well, I was wondering, um… I didn’t get to eat before the awards, and I know a really good place near here. Are you hungry at all?”

Even if Stiles hadn’t been, he would have accepted the offer.

* * *

 

“Seriously, I just don’t get this stuff,” Stiles said, holding up a sprig of parsley and looking at it in disgust. He tossed it to the side of his plate, then looked back at his plate of pasta and hummed happily.

“You’re unbelievable,” Derek said, but his mouth was twitching up. Stiles shoved a forkful of pasta in his mouth, closing his eyes and humming contentedly again.

“I’m _amazing,_ ” Stiles countered, and couldn’t help but laugh at the disbelieving look Derek gave him. “Ok, fine. I might be unbelievable, but it’s a lot better than being normal.” Stiles had spent much of high school wishing he could fit in more, be more like the other people. He and Scott had never been too popular, and Stiles blamed himself partly for that. But now that he was out in the big wide world, Stiles didn’t mind being unique. He owned up to it. And now Derek was looking at him and _oh my god_ his eyes.

 _Relax, Stiles. This is just two buds hanging out. Nothing more._ Stiles was repeating those lines like a mantra. They were at a local place, a dive-like establishment that Stiles hadn’t even known existed. It hadn’t been a long walk, as they hadn’t been able to find a cap as quickly as they wanted, so they had used their feet instead. They had made small talk about Stiles’ photos on the way, and Stiles had been in the process of explaining the cutting process in PhotoShop when they had arrived. They were sitting across from each other, Stiles spread out with his top button undone. He felt much more at ease here, compared to MoMA, but he was still nervous. He was, after all, with Derek.

“How would you define normal?” Derek asked him, taking a bite of his burger, and Stiles leaned back with a frown, thinking.

“College education, apartment with a fish, or parakeet,” he said, and Derek snorted. “Hey! Don’t underestimate the cute capacity of those little guys.” Derek shook his head, smiling again, and Stiles filed the memory away in his list of victories. “And I guess after that a normal person gets a wife, has some kids and a dog, lives in a suburb and commutes to their job, whatever they do. They live their lives and blend in, but they don’t _change_ anything. They just… exist.”

“You think you will change things?” Derek asked, an eyebrow raised, but it wasn’t mocking. His voice was filled with genuine curiosity.

“I mean…” Stiles said, feeling sheepish. “I would hope so.”

Derek seemed thoughtful, now. “What would you want to change?”

Stiles was caught off-guard at this. He looked down at his food, poking at it with his fork. His father would hate his table manners. When he looked back up, Derek was watching him patiently. “I would change _people,_ ” Stiles said, and Derek tilted his head. “Like, the way we interact with each other. When I moved here, I couldn’t believe all the connections that people were missing out on, you know? People are so busy bustling around that they forget they have a ton of potential right next to them, everywhere. Everyday interactions are swept aside, and we don’t take the time to connect with each other anymore. And people can be so mean to each other; it’s like we forget their humanity, in a way. But I think—I _know_ —that we are all connected, you know?”

“What do you mean by that?” Derek asked him, his gaze intense, and Stiles tried to figure out how to word it. They had stopped eating, engrossed in the conversation. He tapped his fingers against the table as his mind buzzed back and forth.

“I mean, I guess it can be complicated but… But I feel like art really shows how everything is connected. I mean, there are repeating patterns, you know? So, like: take coral, and then take the human veins. Both are branched, yeah? Well you see that branching pattern in a ton of things: trees, cracks in the sidewalk, wrinkles on skin. Right?” Derek nodded. “Well, humans have those patterns, too, but it’s deeper than just looks. Everyone has something in common, but I feel like we don’t really realize it until we examine things up close. Photography gives the viewer –and the photographer, I suppose—the chance to see those similarities, because it reduces something down. There are whole portfolios out there based on emotions that appear throughout different animals. And then, if you really wanted to look deeper, you could look at all the portraits that are taken of just people. They’re from all over the world, but no matter what there are examples of pain, and sadness, and of happiness too. So I guess part of the reason I take pictures is to show that, to try and help me figure out how things are connected. And I think if more people did that, we might be more compassionate to each other, or at least not be as rushed about everything.”

He trailed off, and Derek was staring at him with a face that revealed nothing. Stiles realized he had been talking for several minutes, and humiliation hit him. Oh my god, he couldn’t believe he had just told Derek that. He hadn’t even told Scott, it was _that_ embarrassing. “I mean— I know it’s stupid—” he started, feeling flustered, but Derek shook his head.

“No, it doesn’t sound stupid,” he said, and Stiles gaped at him. “The same thing happens in music. There are repeating themes throughout songs, but most people don’t realize it because they don’t bother to examine it.”

“I hadn’t thought about it from that angle,” Stiles admitted, and looked down at his food so he wouldn’t have to meet Derek’s green eyes. He shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth, not really tasting it.

“I used to live in a smaller town,” Derek told him, and Stiles swallowed the huge lump of food as he looked up at Derek with interest. He didn’t know anything about Derek’s past. “So when I moved to the city for college, it was really overwhelming. Music really grounded me, because I felt like so many other things were out of control.”

It was a surprisingly intimate confession, and Stiles felt warmth bubble up in his chest again. He liked Derek sharing things with him. “I feel the same way about photography,” he said. “No matter what, I’m in control. Even if a model is fidgeting or the wind is blowing some leaves, I can still choose when to press the shutter.” He grinned. “With Erica’s help, of course. I don’t stand a chance with these big companies if I don’t have her name endorsing me.”

Derek nodded, taking a bit of his burger again. Stiles drank some of his soda, glancing out the window as a comfortable silence fell over them. Stiles had been predicting the entire dinner to be awkward, but he felt oddly at ease. For some reason, he didn’t mind that potential openness. There was something about Derek, about the way he talked and moved, that made Stiles want to know him more.

“So what did you go to college for?” Stiles asked, leaning back with a content sigh as their plates were taken away by a waiter. They had finished their meals, and Derek was sipping a beer as Stiles gulped more soda.

“Communications,” Derek said, and Stiles looked at him in disbelief.

“Communications?” he demanded, and Derek nodded. Stiles blinked at him a few times until the older man’s eyebrows furrowed. “I, um… I can’t see you liking that much,” Stiles admitted, before he could help himself, and then snapped his mouth shut. Derek didn’t seem offended though, and the corner of his mouth moved up into a half-smile.

“I hated it, to be honest,” he said, and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “If you have to know, I never completed college. Even though I had a ton of scholarships, and my Uncle threw a fit about it, I knew I just couldn’t continue anymore. I felt like my time was slipping away.”

“I’m not even in college,” Stiles told him, and Derek looked surprised. “I know, I know,” Stiles said, used to that reaction. “My high school advisor and father weren’t happy, at least at first. My father came around, though, when he found out that I could get into the mentee program. But everyone else thought it was a terrible choice. I got a lot of lectures. Throwing away my potential, blah blah blah.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Derek told him. Stiles was pleasantly surprised. “I understand. Like I said, I couldn’t handle college either. My grades were fine, but… it just wasn’t right. I never could imagine you sitting still in a library, anyways.” Stiles couldn’t help but grin at that.

“Yeah, well, you’re right about that.”

“Why did you move here, then?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. Something new, I guess. I was tired of being in Beacon Hills, I wanted to get out and see the world. My best friend was coming here for school, so I figured I would tag along. He was in the dorms for a while, so I got an apartment with some people I met on Craigslist,” Derek’s mouth twitched at that, “but then he and I got a place together. Plus, out of all the mentors, I got along with Erica the best, and she lives here.” Stiles looked at Derek over the rim of his cup. “What about you, Sourwolf? Why did you want to come here for school?”

Derek glared at him. “Are you going to keep calling me that forever?”

“Maybe,” Stiles smirked, playing with his straw, and Derek sighed. “You didn’t answer my question,” he half-sang, and was greeted with an eye roll in response.

“Same as you, I guess. I needed something new, needed a break.” The way he said it made Stiles not want to inquire further. Something in his tone had turned dark, emotionless, as if Derek was trying to control himself. It reminded Stiles of the impassive face Derek had made at the audience during the MoMA ceremony.

Stiles’ phone took that opportunity to buzz loudly, Scott’s ringtone (which happened to be “I’m A Barbie Girl”—they had been drunk) going off. Stiles snatched it up quickly, his cheeks burning as Derek raised his eyebrows and took another sip of his beer.

“Unless you’re having crazy wild sex, you need to get back soon,” said Scott’s voice on the other end, and Stiles winced as he glanced over at Derek, hoping he hadn’t heard.

“I’m at dinner,” Stiles replied, and there was a moment of silence on the other end.

“Is it going in the direction of a sleepover?” Scott sounded overly-optimistic. Stiles groaned, humiliated that Scott was doing this to him. Derek was checking his phone as well, a small frown on his face as he typed out a message.

“No, Scott, I don’t think so. Why do you suddenly need my presence there?” he said through gritted teeth, wanting to bang his head on the table.

“Because the landlady is going to be here, and she wants to know how exactly we managed to get those pizza sauce stains on the ceiling,” he said, and Stiles’ eyes went round as he remembered said incident.

“I thought we cleaned those!” he exclaimed, and Derek looked up from his phone with a questioning expression.

“Yeah, well, I guess not,” Scott said, and Stiles sighed. He knew there was no way they would get out of an insanely huge violation bill if he let Scott talk to the landlord alone. Scott was just too nice and too oblivious. “Ok, I’ll be back soon. Don’t, and I mean _don’t,_ talk to her without me, ok?” he said, and Scott confirmed. They hung up, and Stiles looked back at Derek.

“I’m so sorry man, I have to go. My roommate is having some trouble.”

“Everything ok?” Derek asked, standing up with Stiles as they both shrugged on their jackets.

“Just landlord stuff,” Stiles said, running a hand sheepishly over the back of his neck. “We, um, managed to get some pizza sauce stains on the ceiling.” Derek raised his well-defined eyebrows again. “We couldn’t help it, it was a necessary evil,” Stiles insisted, and was rewarded with another twitch of the lips from Derek.

“Right, well,” Derek said as they stepped outside, and Stiles turned to face him. Derek’s hands were shoved in his pockets again. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Stiles said, genuine. “It was really fun. We should, uh, we should do this again, sometime.” He was incredibly nervous as he said the last words, although he told himself he shouldn’t be. After all, Derek was probably straight anyways. To him, it was just hanging out.

To his surprise, Derek flushed slightly. But his face remained unreadable, and Stiles was left wondering if it has just been a trick of the light. “Yeah,” the older man agreed, “we should. You’re still coming to my gig next Friday?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, without thinking about trying to appear casual. He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I mean, I think so.”

“Cool,” Derek said, seeming just as unnerved, and then checked his watch. Stiles remembered he had to go back and attempt to save his bank account from the hands of the landlady.

“Right, well, see you around, maybe,” he said, fidgeting, and Derek nodded.

When Stiles got back that night, and after he had managed to negotiate with the landlady to give them a few more days to clean up the mess without getting charged, he fell into bed. He was exhausted, but his mind buzzed away at a mile a minute. He thought about Derek, about his smile and the way his eyes crinkled slightly when he laughed, and about the darkness in his voice when he talked about his old town. As he slowly stripped down, savoring the feel of his sheets and soft pillow, he wondered what Derek felt towards him. He hoped it was good. With questions hovering in the spaces between his breaths, he fell asleep.     


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles groaned, slamming his laptop shut in frustration as he rubbed his eyes harshly with his knuckles. It was ten at night and he had been working on the MoMA photos for the past twelve hours, only taking breaks for the bathroom and to eat half of a stale bagel leftover from breakfast the day before. A week had passed since he and Derek had gotten dinner, and Stiles had been too wimpy to text him yet. He didn’t want to seem needy or annoying, and he didn’t know how busy Derek might be.

But it was ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, and Scott was at the library studying for a test and _Stiles just couldn’t work anymore, goddamn it._ He felt like he was vibrating, and jerking off in the shower wouldn’t be enough to calm his restlessness right now. He needed to go out, _explore_ ; and that’s when a crazy idea hit him.

He typed the message about ten times before he decided _fuck it_ and sent it, his heart beating erratically in his chest and his palms sweaty. Oh my god, he couldn’t believe he just did that. He read over it about ten times in the span of thirty seconds, terrified. **Bored. Can’t stop thinking of pizza. Want to come?** He had just texted Derek Hale to go to pizza and oh my god, why did he do that, it was ten at night, Derek was probably at a party or with his friends or doing important things because Derek had a _life,_ it’s not like he was waiting around for Stiles, what if he took the last sentence as a sexual innuendo because Stiles was just now realizing it had that potential—

His phone buzzed, and Stiles nearly fell over in his haste to open it.

**Yes. Where?**

* * *

 

The pizza place was small but popular, packed with people who were as diverse as San Fran itself. He and Derek had met outside it at about 11, Stiles out of breath from running there (he was broke: his cut of the paycheck from Maybelline hadn’t come in yet, and he only had $20 in cash), Derek seeming relaxed and composed. When Stiles had seen him, he’d almost done a double-take. Derek was in jeans and a T-shirt, one that clung to his body in all the right places (but, Stiles thought, was there even any _wrong_ place on Derek?), the leather jacket from the airport tucked under his arm. They had greeted each other with a handshake and quickly gone inside, no small talk necessary. Stiles nearly had a heart attack when he found out Derek liked the same kind of pizza he did, sausage and pepper with some olives on top. Derek wasn’t as fond of cheese, though, so Stiles had ordered his half of the Large with extra cheese. He had then proceeded to order cheesy breadsticks and a soda, to which Derek had looked at him in rather entertained disbelief.

“I’m a growing man! I need my nutrients!” Stiles had called after Derek, who was walking towards the restroom, and Derek had just waved his hand dismissively without looking back. Stiles didn’t know why that made him grin and caused his chest to flutter, but it did. He had located a table, and here he was, now, waiting nervously for Derek to join him again. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Derek slid into the booth across from him, a glass of water in his hand.

“Thanks for coming,” Stiles told him, earnestly, and Derek nodded as he sipped the water.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he replied, and looked around curiously. “I’ve never been here before, but one of my friends worked here when I was in college, I think.”

“Yeah, this place is pretty hectic,” Stiles admitted, watching a few waitresses weave their way around people, filling up water glasses. “How has your week been?”

“Fine,” he replied, and Stiles tilted his head. Derek seemed tense, his shoulders unnaturally stiff—and they were already pretty damn stiff to begin with. At Stiles’ silent look, Derek scowled at him. “What?”

“Methinks that you’re Pinocchio,” Stiles said, and Derek looked blankly at him. This made Stiles gape back. “Do you not get that reference? Like, his nose grows. The whole ‘I’m a real boy!’ shindig? Seriously? God, you’re repressed.”

Derek glared. “I don’t watch kid’s movies.”

“Well,” Stiles countered, drawing out the word, “maybe if you did, you wouldn’t be so much of a Sourwolf.” They had a silent battle of wills with their eyes across the table at that. Finally, Stiles drawled, “So, how _was_ your week?”

Derek groaned, shaking his head. “You don’t give up, do you?” Stiles smirked and shook his head. “Fine then. It was terrible.” Stiles stared silently at him until he huffed and continued. “One of my clients, who I’ve known for years, just got engaged, and the planning is so hectic. They can’t make up their minds, and she keeps coming to the rest of us for advice. She wants to have it ready in about a month, but I think they’re rushing it.”

“Do you think they’re a bad match, or…?” he asked, and Derek shook his head quickly.

“No, no. I mean, I don’t know what goes on in their daily lives but, well, they seem happy. I just… I guess I’m just not prepared for it, that’s all.” Stiles cocked his head. Derek suddenly seemed flustered. “They want me to play this piece, and it’s really complex. I have so many different projects and I’m worried I won’t preform at my peak. I guess that’s a pretty selfish reason, isn’t it?” Stiles was surprised, not used to that amount of openness from Derek.

“No, I think it’s natural to worry,” Stiles said, chewing on his lip. “But you were really good at MoMA. I can’t imagine you not preforming well.” He meant it. To his surprise, Derek looked flattered.

“Yeah, well, you might be the only one.” At Stiles’ questioning look, he flushed and motioned between them. “I’m not good at—at the whole… social interaction thing. So having people watch me can be… hard.” Stiles opened his mouth to disagree, to say that Derek was doing just fine with talking now that they knew each other, but before they could continue the conversation, a waitress came over with their pizza.

“Here you go, boys,” she said, and Stiles couldn’t help but notice her eyes rake up and down Derek’s body. He clenched his hands underneath the table, feeling a wave of jealousy roll through him. _He isn’t even your boyfriend,_ he scolded himself; but still, the idea of other people looking at Derek made his chest deflate and his mood sour. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, looking at Derek, and then she swung her hips around and walked off. Derek was already grabbing a slice of pizza, seeming oblivious.

“She digs you,” Stiles blurted, before he could stop himself, and Derek looked up mid-bite with an innocent, questioning look on his face. Stiles tried to stop himself from thinking about how adorable it was.

“What?” Derek glanced back at the waitress. Then he made a face. “No, definitely not. She was just bringing the pizza.”

“Dude, she was totally checking you out,” Stiles said, crossing his arms and trying to sound like an uninterested friend. “Have you _seen_ yourself?”

Derek flushed, the first full blush Stiles had ever seen, and looked away from Stiles. Stiles was embarrassed, too, and suddenly worried. What if Derek was creeped out? Sure, friends commented on each other’s looks sometimes; but it was rarer among guys, and Stiles hadn’t met Derek that long ago. He had to keep reminding himself of that fact. But he was cut off short when Derek looked him in the eye and said, “Have _you_ seen _yourself_?”

Stiles blushed to the roots of his hairline, and he looked down at his slice of pizza. “Yeah, well, there’s not much to see,” he said, trying not to sound bitter, but it came out that way anyways. He glanced up to see Derek staring at him, incredulous.

“People have been checking you out all night, Stiles,” he said, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I think you’re confused at who they’re looking at. I’m not the one who looks like they stepped out of a magazine cover,” he said, and it was Derek’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, well, maybe they just aren’t my type,” he mumbled, and Stiles felt his heart race. Derek was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, _really_ looking at him, and he felt breathless.

“What,” he said, and he had to take a sip of water because his voice had risen an octave, “what is your type, then?”

Derek looked at him straight in the eyes. “Not them,” he said, and Stiles didn’t know how to take that but wow, his dick was definitely taking it as a hint even if Derek didn’t want him to because his mind wouldn’t stop blabbering away to him about it. The waitress came back and refilled their glasses, and Stiles decided he was done with that conversation.

“This one time…” he began, and Derek leaned forward with interest.  

* * *

 

The sound of cars zipping by, even though it was well past 1 AM, filled Stiles’ ears as he and Derek stepped back out onto the street. They were laughing, Derek having just told Stiles about the first dog his family had ever gotten, named Skippy, because she was peanut-butter colored.

“She chewed through _all_ of Cora’s shoes,” he said, grinning at the memory, “and Cora had a screaming _fit._ But Skippy was happy.”

Stiles grinned at that. “Man, I wish my family had owned a pet,” he said, longingly. “I’ve always wanted a dog. I’m not a cat person.”

“They’re little brats,” Derek agreed, and Stiles cracked up.

“I feel like they think humans are their pets, not the other way around,” Stiles said, and mimicked putting on an invisible crown. In a silly voice, he made a meowing noise and proclaimed, “I am Queen, and you humans shall feed me and serve my every need.”

Derek was laughing, loudly, enough to make a few people glance worriedly at them as they walked by. Stiles didn’t even care that he was being weird, not when he could make Derek laugh. He loved Derek’s laugh. “Yeah, dogs are better,” Derek said, and Stiles felt like he was buzzed from the high he was getting off of Derek. “I used to run with Skippy all the time.”

“When did she pass away?” Stiles asked, curious, and was taken aback when Derek’s face turned sober. His face got the same look as when he was in MoMA, the same as when Stiles had asked him about why he moved. He suddenly felt like he messed up, like he was intruding, and he scrambled to change the subject before Derek can respond. “Do you still run?”

Derek seemed to relax at the change of subject. They were standing on the street corner, the bright lights from the buildings casting their shadows onto the sidewalk. “Yeah, when I can. I like running in the mornings. It calms me down.”

Stiles nodded. “I like going in the evening, for the same reason. I did lacrosse in high school, and during practice we had to run a lot.” Derek nodded, and Stiles checked his phone. It was late, really late.

“Have to take off?” Derek asked, and Stiles frowned. He didn’t want to go, but he should.

“I guess so,” he said, dejected, but he hovered indecisively. “Thanks again for coming out. I know it was late.”

“Anytime,” Derek said, and Stiles desperately wanted him to mean it. He wanted Derek around, he wanted him to come over for lunches and tour museums with him and look at his photography. He wanted to take photos of Derek, he wanted to go on picnics with him, to wake up next to him in bed with the sun warming their bodies. He wanted everything.

But he couldn’t have it. Because Derek was straight, he had to be straight, because someone like Derek wouldn’t be interested in someone like Stiles. After all, he was _Stiles._ He was all gangly limbs, sharp hipbones, pale skin. He wasn’t like Derek; he wasn’t _hot,_ he was just _Stiles._ He was awkward and sure, people could handle him as a friend, but not as an interest, not as someone who they could spend a life with, raise kids with, fall asleep next to every night.

“Are you still coming on Friday?” Derek asked, and Stiles was pulled out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, I will,” he promised. Derek stepped forward, closing some of the space between them. He lay his hand on Stiles’ arm.

“Because… I really want you to come, Stiles.” Derek was looking into his eyes, and Stiles’ heart was beating rapidly. “I had a lot of fun tonight. It’s—it’s been a long time since I’ve gone out and done things like this, at least with someone who I haven’t known for years. So it would mean a lot to me if you came, saw me preform, you know.”

Stiles felt like he was choking. Derek’s hand was on his arm and it was so warm, contrasted so strongly against the cold night, and all Stiles wanted was to lean forward and have Derek’s arms wrap around his waist, pull him in and let the heat soak through his clothes. He wanted Derek, wanted to be with him, and even though Stiles kept telling himself it was too soon to feel that way, that he didn’t even know Derek that well, it didn’t stop the thought.

“I’ll be there,” he promised, and Derek gave him a blinding smile.

* * *

 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Stiles said, throwing his clothes onto the floor in a fit of distress. Scott was hovering in the doorway, holding several of his dress ties that he got for Christmas last year via Mama McCall. They had to leave in an hour to pick up Kira, and Stiles was, to put it simply, a complete and total mess. “I should just stay home,” he said, walking in an anxious circle, and Scott gave him a pitying look.

“Come on, man, it’s gonna be fine,” he said, as reassuringly as he could, but Stiles was too nervous.

“I feel like I am sweating through every single pore on my body, Scott,” he snapped, and Scott frowned.

“You sound like Isaac.” Stiles made a face. “The grey shirt looked good?” he said, more of a question then a statement, and Stiles groaned.

“No, ‘good’ isn’t enough, not for this. I want to look… desirable,” he griped. “You see, Stiles wants to have a good time. Many, many times. Several times… in a row. With Derek. And if he _is_ gay –or bi, or pansexual, or if he just _digs guys—_ then I am gonna damn well give this my best shot.”

“He _does_ dig guys,” Scott began, stepping forward and kicking a rejected pair of pants to the side with his foot, “and I’m sure that you look attractive, bro. You just need to relax. Derek doesn’t seem like the type to care about that stuff, anyways.”

“We can’t know that!” Stiles cried, running his hands through his hair in panic, and Scott scowled. He moved out of the room, receiving an indignant look from Stiles, but came back a second later holding his cell.

“That’s it,” he said, shoving the phone into Stiles’ hands. “We’ll never get out of here on time if you don’t do this.”

Stiles was confused. “Do what?”

Scott gave him a look that said he was stupid. “Call Lydia, man,” he said, and Stiles had never heard a better idea come out of his best friend’s mouth.

* * *

 

Stiles glanced around at the club, mouth agape. They had been let into what appeared to be a stylish mixture of bar, dance club, and performance stage. It was near the heart of Castro, right next to a gay bar that Stiles passed by often on his way to take photographs. On the outside it seemed plain, nothing too special; but the inside was decked out. Lights in various colors flickered to and fro across the walls, and a marble bar with thin yellow lights suspended above it took up the right wall of the room. The rest of the space was an open wood floor, with about twenty round tables scattered about. A few couches, plush and red, were tucked into corners with black wood tables.

Nervously tugging at his thin tie (and feeling very glad that he had risked overdressing), Stiles looked behind him to see Kira and Scott in equal states of awe. Kira was dressed in a tight red dress and black high heels, Scott in a pair of black slacks, a black dress shirt, and a red tie. Stiles had been under Lydia’s guidance for his outfit, a pair of black slacks with a red shirt and a dark silver tie.

“ _He likes you,_ ” she had said, ignoring Stiles’ protests. “ _First, he invited you to his gig. Then, he got pasta with you. And a week later, he went out to pizza. That’s three times, Stiles. And now it’s going to be the fourth. If one's an incident, two's a coincidence, and three's a pattern, what's four?_ ” Not surprisingly, that hadn’t made Stiles feel any more secure.

Stiles glanced back, looking for Scott and Kira among the increasingly crowded entrance. The two men’s eyes met, and Stiles drew in a breath as Scott shrugged his shoulders, as if saying _well, let’s get on with this_. Slapping his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, Scott began to half-drag him into the room.

The lighting was dim, and Stiles still hadn’t seen Derek by the time they sat down at one of the round tables. As he craned his neck, the sound of Scott hissing his name and then a tap on his shoulder made him turn.

“Derek!” he said, scrambling up and nearly knocking over his chair. Derek seemed very pleased to see him, his white teeth spread in a genuine grin. He looked gorgeous, with a silver dress shirt that was untucked, a black tie hanging loose on his tan throat.

“Stiles!” he said, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin back. “I’m glad you made it.” Derek glanced over at Scott and Kira, and they stood up.

“Scott,” his friend said, looking Derek up and down critically. He was Papa-Bearing, and Stiles rolled his eyes behind Derek’s back and glared at his friend.

“Derek,” the older man said, good-naturedly, and introduced himself to Kira as well. Then he turned back to Stiles, who was suddenly nervous to have his full attention. “How did your shoot go?”

“What? Oh!” Stiles said, having completely forgotten about Ulta, which he had done on Wednesday morning. “Oh, it went really well. I’m still developing a few of the photos, and they want some heavy PhotoShopping that Erica is going to help me with, but I’ll probably have it done by Monday.”

“That’s good to hear,” Derek said, and Stiles wished he had something to do with his hands.

“How—how was your week?” he managed, and Derek shook his head in annoyance. “Fun, clearly,” Stiles said, sarcastically, and Derek actually chuckled.

“Not as fun as this is,” he said, and Stiles felt the heat rush to his ears. Struggling for something clever to say, he barely heard Derek comment, “You seem a lot more relaxed here. Airports and museum parties really aren’t your places, are they?”

“Oh, uh, not exactly,” Stiles said, his stomach doing a few upset flips. To divert the attention away from him, he motioned to Derek. “You seem more comfortable, too.”

“This is my environment,” Derek said, shrugging again. “It’s not a formal wedding, and I’m not the only one being looked at. Plus I don’t _really_ have to talk to anyone—Cora does all that for me.” Then he added, quietly, “Besides, you came, so I’m happy about that.” Stiles could have died right there. Behind Derek’s back, Scott was nodding his head vigorously and giving him the thumbs up. Kira was grinning.

He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short. There was a clatter on stage and they both turned to see a woman struggling to set up a few pieces of music equipment. Stiles turned back to Derek when the older man sighed. “You know her?” he guessed, and Derek nodded.

“My sister, Laura,” he said, and ran a hand through his hair. “I should go help her.” He hesitated. “Will you be staying for the whole show?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, without thinking, because they actually hadn’t agreed how long they would be here, and Scott was his ride. He pushed the thought aside. “I have the whole night, so…” If he had to, he would walk.

“Perfect,” Derek said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’re about to go up, it would be nice to catch up later.” At Stiles’ numb, shocked nod, Derek smiled and made his way to the stage through the crowds of people. Stiles watched in awe as Derek jumped on stage in one swift movement, not even needing to use his hands.

“Someone is interested,” said a voice in his ear, and Stiles turned around to swear at Scott. “Are you ever going to wash that shoulder? His hand _touched_ you there.” His friend was laughing, and Stiles playfully punched his arm.

“Shut up. Yes, I’m going to wash it!” Truthfully, he had considered not. “Look, I’ve never seen him that talkative before. Maybe he’s nervous. Or he’s just being nice.”

“If he is that nice to everyone,” Kira interjected, “then he is probably getting laid _a lot._ ”

It made Stiles’ stomach drop, to think about Derek having people all over him. _Was_ he this nice to everyone? After all, he barely even knew Stiles. It had only been a bit over two weeks, after all. His mood plummeted, the fuzzy feeling from Derek’s words replaced by a buzzing jealousy that thrummed through his veins. He sat back down in his chair and crossed his arms, glaring at nothing in particular. He felt Scott pat his shoulder again.

The screech of microphone feedback made the club wince, and people fell silent as they looked toward the stage. A red-faced girl with dark brown hair, the same one who had been struggling with the sound equipment, waved awkwardly.

“Right, ok,” said a blonde, who had appeared on her right, “it’s time to get started here!” There was a scattered round of applause, and Stiles joined in as he once again looked around. The range of ages at this gig was insane: teenagers were making out in the corner, while nearby a lesbian couple of fifty years old was holding hands and sipping wine. Stiles vaguely wondered which people knew Derek.

“Tonight is all about the covers,” the blonde woman was saying, and Stiles shifted his gaze back up on stage. His heartbeat picked up when he saw Derek positioned behind the two girls at the drums, talking quietly with a guitar-clasping man who appeared to be in his forties.

“What’s the name of the band?” Kira asked, leaning over to Stiles. He realized that he had no idea. As he opened his mouth to respond, he was distracted by Derek stepping up to take the mic.

“Thank you to everyone for coming tonight,” he said, and Stiles could have sworn Derek was purposefully locking their gazes together right then. Another small smile pulled at the older man’s lips, before he turned to the two girls and man whom Stiles didn’t know. “We are… do I have to say it, Cora?” he said suddenly, sounding disgruntled, and the blonde grinned wickedly.

“No shame, no gain little bro! We are HaleFire, and this is our venue tonight!”

There was some applause and a few whistles, and Stiles had to kick Scott from under the table to stop him from laughing uproariously. “Seriously, HaleFire?” Scott whispered to him, and was instantly poked in the ribs by Kira.

“I think it’s cute,” she said, firmly, and Scott grinned at her like a love-struck puppy dog. Stiles rolled his eyes, instead shifting his gaze back to Derek. The man was taking a few breaths, his drumsticks ready.

And then the music started.

They were good.

 _Really_ good.

Stiles had never really been one for covers. He liked things traditional, old-school. If he could, he would carry a record player with him everywhere instead of his iPod. But, listening to HaleFire, Stiles realized he would buy an album by them in an instant.

Soon his foot was tapping along to a cover of Lady Gaga’s _Applause,_ and Scott and Kira joined in the whooping and cheering when the song ended. Grinning, the band moved on to _Counting Stars._ Derek didn’t sing, and he didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the drums yet, but Stiles loved it nonetheless. After a particularly passionate rendition of _State of Grace_ , by Taylor Swift, Stiles was completely in his element. Before he knew it, the hour of playtime had gone by and Kira and Scott were giddily whirling around on the dance floor, leaving Stiles to sip some water and stare up at the stage in awe.

With a dramatic flourish of the guitars, HaleFire ended with cheers and applause that nearly made the walls shake. A few men next to Stiles stomped their feet and wolf-whistled as Cora tossed her hair over her shoulder and looped her arm around Laura’s waist, laughing from the high that the applause was giving them. Derek was in the back, his eyes scanning the crowd that was moving around and dancing. Stiles wondered, fleetingly, who he was looking for. He hoped that it was him.

The next few minutes were a flurry of movement and chaos as sound equipment and instruments were moved off the stage. Scott and Kira came back over to the table, giggling, and Stiles craned his neck in an attempt to see over the crowd and catch a glimpse of Derek. But it was impossible. Resigned to his fate (and possible lone status the rest of the night), Stiles sat back down and glanced over at Kira and Scott: they were making out. Stiles instantly looked up at the ceiling, making a disgusted face, and he saw Scott flip him off out of the corner of his eye.

“Stiles!” said a voice, and he swiveled around in confusion. There stood Derek’s sister, Laura, her dark brown hair falling in straight sheets onto her bare shoulders. He hadn’t gotten a close look at her before, but the strapless green dress with black leggings highlighted her slim figure; she was unlike Cora, who was more curvaceous, and Stiles would never have guessed they were sisters.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his chair. Laura grinned at him, and slid an arm through his. Stiles looked at her with wide eyes as she laughed. “I’m Laura, Derek’s sister. He told me about you. I’ve never heard him talk about someone so much. You should see the texts I got, he had no idea how to handle you. I knew you were the airport guy the instant I saw your eyes in the crowd. Such a cute face.”

His ears and cheeks heated up, and he coughed nervously. Scott was looking at the scene with his mouth open, Kira’s head on his shoulder. Stiles gave him a panicked look. “I… er…” he said, lost for words, and she laughed again.

“I’ve come to fetch you,” she said, and motioned over at one of the tables near the left corner of the room. The members of HaleFire were there, shifting chairs and looking at the drinks menu. Stiles saw Derek there, his back to him, talking to Cora. Cora was grinning at Stiles, her eyes flicking between him and Derek, and Stiles saw him look over his shoulder in confusion. Their eyes met, and Stiles felt his heart race as Derek flushed.

“I’m Scott,” his best friend said, suddenly next to him with Kira in tow, and Laura shook both of their hands.

“Derek was too shy to come and invite you over,” Laura told them, mainly directing her words towards Stiles, “but I couldn’t stand him pining away any longer. It’s rare for him to be this friendly towards strangers. You should join us.” Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Derek continually glancing back towards them, a distressed look on his face.

Before Stiles could open his mouth, Scott had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “We’d love to!” Gaping like a fish out of water, Stiles let himself be led numbly over to the table.

“He was so nervous to have you watching,” Laura said quietly to Stiles, who looked at her with wide eyes. “I’ve never seen him so determined not to mess up.” Stiles didn’t know how to react to that information, but the warm feeling that was seeping through his chest was enough to give him the courage to lock eyes with Derek as they got closer.

“Well, you were all amazing,” Stiles managed to reply, and she gave him a toothy grin.

“Everyone, this is Stiles, Scott, and Kira,” Laura said happily, and Cora and the older man stood up. Derek stood up halfway, seemed to rethink it, and sat back down. Stiles realized he was staring at him, and looked quickly away.

“Cora,” the other sister said, and shook Stiles’ hand. Her grip was firm, and he squirmed under her intense gaze. He felt like he was being dissected. “This is our uncle, Peter.” The older man shook his hand as well, but it was with a gentler gaze.

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles said, more nervous than he had been during his first shoot ever with _Times Magazine,_ and they all sat down (save for Peter, who excused himself to get drinks for the table). Stiles was seated right next to Derek, their knees almost touching, and he drummed his fingers frantically on his leg. Derek seemed stoic, calm, and Stiles tried to take a few deep breaths.

“So what do you all do for a living?” Cora asked, her elbow on the table as she examined her well-manicured nails.

“I’m in college,” Scott volunteered, “but I work part-time at the animal shelter off of Fourth and Lincoln.” Laura was clearly delighted with this, leaning forward with sparkling eyes. They talked about Scott’s job for a while, and then Kira’s internship at the hospital, but Stiles couldn’t focus. All he could think about was how close Derek was, how easy it would be to reach out and touch his knee, his hand, his chest.

“What about you, Stiles?” Laura asked, rather kindly, and Stiles snapped out of his trance.

“I’m a freelance photographer,” he said, and this clearly caught Cora’s interest.

“Wait, do you have a website?” she asked, and Stiles nodded in confusion.

“Yeah, I only set it up about four months ago, though. It was my mentor’s idea. I still need to put some of my newer work on it.” He thought about how he still hadn’t edited Lydia’s photos, or the Ulta ones for that matter. He had only managed to get Maybelline’s done yesterday.

“I’ve seen some of them,” she said, and Stiles raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Wait, really?” That was exciting.

A smirk worked its way onto her face. “Yeah, Derek showed me your site.”

_Oh my god._

“Cora,” Derek hissed, leaning forward. But Stiles felt like he was walking on air. His ears were red once more, that information spinning through his head. _Derek looked me up online. Derek found my website. Derek liked my photos enough to show his sister._

Cora ignored Derek’s protests. “They’re really good. I saw those photos in the Victoria Secret ad last month, but I didn’t know it was you at the time. I liked them; they were more natural-looking than they normally are.”

Stiles remembered how painful it had been to try and reduce the PhotoShopping that VS had wanted on the models. They had been beautiful women, and he hadn’t wanted to change them too much. “The real praise should go to Erica. I was just her assistant. I’m a beginner,” he said, “and so I didn’t get much choice in what was done. But I was happy they didn’t have me edit them more. I like natural beauty.” It seemed like a lame finish, and he instantly felt awkward again. But Cora grinned at him, the first genuine smile he had seen from her.

“For someone new, you certainly got a deal with a big company.”

“Pure luck,” Stiles insisted, and at this Derek scoffed.

“Don’t be humble,” he told Stiles, who felt himself blush. “You’ve been sought out by a ton of people: Maybelline, MoMA, Ulta, the _Times_. Some of those are due to your mentor, sure—but I think they recognize talent when they see it. Your photos are really good.” His words were sincere, and Stiles was oddly touched. And flustered. So flustered.

“Your music is good, too,” he mumbled, and it was Derek’s turn to flush slightly.

Peter came back from the bar, a few drinks in hand, and there was shuffling of chairs as they moved to make room. As they shifted, Stiles’ knee hit Derek’s and he drew in a breath. When the movement stopped, their knees were pressed together. Stiles glanced at Derek out of corner of his eye, and saw that Derek was looking straight ahead at Laura, who was telling a story about one of their grandparents to Kira.

“How did the band get started?” Scott asked, after things had quieted down some, and Laura launched into description.

“We were always a musical family,” she said, “and after our parents died, Uncle Peter thought it would be a nice way to channel our focus.”

Stiles felt like he had been punched in the gut. He glanced over again at Derek, who met his eyes briefly but looked away right after. He never would have had a clue that Derek’s parents were dead. He suddenly felt like an intruder, knowing something so personal about Derek. He wondered if that was why Derek had moved away, if maybe his dog had died at the same time. He was burning with curiosity, but he would never dare to ask. Scott and Kira were also shifting slightly, seeming awkward.

Laura continued on, unabated. “Derek had already played piano for a while, and he knew a teacher that was willing to invest some time in Cora and I. So we started singing, and Cora learned the guitar, and voila. At first it was just her and I singing duets, with Peter being our stage manager, but then we managed to get him to play as well.”

Stiles turned to Derek. “What about you, then? When did you join?”

“Just recently,” Derek said, finally speaking up. “About when Cora decided to go blonde.”

The sound of Cora’s hand smacking against his arm was enough to make even Peter wince, and Derek glowered at her as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I wanted them to think I was a natural goldilocks,” she sniffed at him, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“You had me fooled,” Kira inserted, clearly attempting to be helpful, and Scott pecked her on the cheek as Cora snorted. “No, really,” she gushed, “it looks great on you, Cora.” The two girls grinned at each other and, with a slightly uncomfortable shuffle of his legs, Derek turned back to Stiles.

Searching for something to say, Stiles asked, “Wait, so why did it take you so long to join up? I mean—you’re _good._ ” He meant it, too.

“Preforming in these kinds of venues never really was my thing when I was younger. I prefer piano still, truthfully. But this is fun, and I can sing; it gets easy, once you get used to it.” He shrugged, as if it was no big deal that he was somehow a musical master.

As Kira interrogated Peter about what it was like to stage manage, with the rest of the table absorbed in the discussion, Stiles’ phone pinged. He glanced at it, pleased to see a text from Lydia.

**Hello dear. Going well?**

Stiles sighed. **I don’t know,** he texted back, and set it on the table. To his surprise, he felt Derek shift forward a bit. Their legs touched again; and then suddenly there was a warm weight on Stiles’ knee.

Derek’s hand was resting on his knee.

The touch was light, barely even there; if Stiles had wanted to, he could have shifted away from it easily. But his heart had started racing in his chest, and he breathed in and out through his nose as he tried to remain collected. He could feel Derek looking at him from the side, gauging his reaction, and Stiles wished that he could telepathically communicate to Derek that _fuck yes, he should keep going._

His phone pinged again and he jumped, making Derek twitch. But he didn’t draw his hand away; instead, the grip on his knee tightened slightly. Goosebumps shot up and down Stiles’ body as Derek’s hand slid slowly, very slowly, up, and then stopped to rest with the thumb on his inner thigh.

Stiles couldn’t even think. _Oh my god, oh my god._ There was no way that this was actually happening. Stiles didn’t get this lucky, not ever. But the warmth of Derek’s hand was real, more real than anything Stiles had felt tonight. He drew in a shaky breath through slightly parted lips, and steeled himself. With a shaking hand, he gently touched Derek’s thumb.

He could feel the tension ease out of Derek’s entire body at the touch, the muscles of the older man’s arm relaxing. His thumb started moving in circles against Stiles’ pants, stroking his inner thigh in a way that probably felt more erotic than he meant it to be. Stiles looked over at him this time, fully; and when Derek looked back, green eyes hesitant, Stiles couldn’t help but grin at him.

His phone pinged again. Derek glanced down and, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, murmured, “You going to answer?”

“Yeah, yeah, Sourwolf,”

He could feel Derek’s grin at that. Reaching to the table and retrieving his phone, Stiles saw Lydia’s replies.

**What do you mean?**

**You haven’t replied, which better mean you are in the process of having mind-blowing sex.**

Stiles snorted at this, his mood much better with Derek’s warm hand on his leg. He shot back a reply, and then tuned into the conversation again. He suddenly felt amazing, his muscles relaxing under Derek’s thumb. Derek was leaning back a bit in his chair now, a content look on his face for the first time since the band stopped playing.

Derek’s hand didn’t move for the next hour, the chatter around the table becoming increasingly relaxed as time progressed. Soon Stiles was perfectly at ease, the music and dim lights lulling him into a sense of security. Derek’s grip on him certainly contributed to that. Stiles laughed uproariously when Scott managed to get his tie tangled in one of Kira’s long earrings, and they all chuckled when Peter almost tripped a waiter as he told a particularly flamboyant story about his trip to Vegas. Stiles even managed to sneak in the story of how they pranked Coach Finstock when they were in the lacrosse team in high school. Derek was laughing, with the rest of the family in hysterics, by the end. He was practically buzzing with contentment when Scott glanced at his phone and swore.

“Shit, man. It’s late, I gotta get back to the place. I have work tomorrow.”

Stiles felt disappointment fill him as Cora and Laura playfully groaned and tried to stop Scott from getting up. Derek was suddenly tense next to him. Kira was giggling, but she stood up as well. Stiles looked helplessly at them, trying to communicate to Scott with his eyes that he _needed_ to stay.

Scott was, of course, oblivious.

“You coming, man?” he asked, and Stiles wanted to scream in exasperation. Everything had been going so well: they were talking, and laughing, and Derek was here with him and Stiles wasn’t stupid enough to think that the older man wasn’t interested anymore.

He drew in a hiss of breath as Derek’s hand suddenly tightened around his leg, moving up just a touch further. _Oh. My. God._

“I can give Stiles a ride back,” Derek offered, and Stiles turned to look at him so fast that his neck cracked. Cora raised an eyebrow, then took a sip of her drink. Laura beamed at Derek, and Scott glanced over at Stiles. _That ok?_ his eyes asked, and Stiles nodded as casually as he could.

“Sounds good to me,” he said, and tried not to sound too excited.

“Cool,” Scott said, and leaned forward to fist bump Derek and Peter. Derek did so with raised eyebrows. Laura and Cora hugged him, still laughing, and Scott nodded to Stiles as he wrapped an arm around Kira’s waist. She was hurriedly typing her number into the other girls’ phones.

“Awesome to meet you,” Laura said, hugging Kira tightly.

“See you later,” Scott said to Stiles, glancing quickly between him and Derek, and the two turned to leave. Stiles watched them go, then turned back to the table. Laura was yawning, her two glasses of wine long gone. Peter was relaxed in his chair, swirling his drink lazily, while Cora checked her phone.

“I’m out, guys,” she said, and stood up in a graceful motion. “Time for a taxi.” As she said it, Stiles’ phone went off and he glanced down at it. It was from Scott.

**Think u’ll be back tonight?**

Stiles could feel himself blush, and the weight of Derek’s hand against him suddenly felt incredibly heavy.

 **I hope not,** he managed to type. His hands were shaking.

Scott replied instantly, and Stiles realized Kira must be driving. **I’m gonna leave the door locked, then. U have ur keys?**

 **Yes,** Stiles replied, not actually knowing if he did but not caring in the slightest because _oh for the love of god_ Derek had just started moving his thumb in circles again and that felt _amazing._

“Everything ok?” Derek asked, leaning forward slightly, and Stiles snapped his phone shut. Derek’s hand moved up from his leg to rest on the small of his back, and Stiles wanted to keen from the loss of warmth near his dick.

“Everything’s great,” he said, honestly, and couldn’t help smiling. Derek’s mouth twitched as he looked into Stiles’ eyes for a moment. Cora came over to them, arms outstretched.

“Hug me, Derek,” she demanded, and Derek rolled his eyes, standing up to hug her. Cora looked at Stiles from behind Derek’s back and winked, and Stiles felt a grin flash across his face as he flushed. Peter and Laura had stood as well, and Stiles clambered from his chair for a hug from Laura and another handshake from Peter. Derek’s hand found his back again, and Stiles leaned into the touch.

“See you around, Stiles,” Cora said, and the three of them walked out.

Stiles turned to Derek almost instantly. There was one thing he didn’t understand. “As much as I love the idea of you driving me somewhere, I thought you said you didn’t have a car,” he said, raising his eyebrows. Derek looked at him, blinked, and then threw his head back in a laugh.

“I don’t,” Derek admitted, grinning as Stiles smirked, “but…”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t want you to leave.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. Suddenly his palms were sweaty, nerves rushing into him. This was happening faster than he had originally thought it would. He swallowed, and turned to face Derek fully. “Yeah, well… I didn’t want to either,” he said, his voice softer, and something lit up behind Derek’s eyes. His hand found Stiles’ hip, and he leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“How about we get out of here, then?” he murmured, and Stiles felt his breath ghosting softly across his earlobe. Shivers crept up his body and Derek pulled him slightly closer, moving his head back so he could look at Stiles’ face.

“Where are you thinking, exactly?” Stiles asked, and Derek grinned at him. He placed his hand on the small of Stiles’ back again, carefully guiding him towards the door. Stiles looked back up at him, a frown of confusion on his face.

“Come on. We can go back to my place, but let’s stop somewhere first. Trust me,” Derek said, and the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of Stiles’ shirt was all the convincing he needed.

* * *

 

“This was the best idea ever,” Stiles said happily, watching with excited eyes as the barista put copious amounts of whipped cream on his latte. Derek had already grabbed his drink, another dark coffee with no room, and was looking at Stiles with something close to dismay.

“So much whipped cream,” the older man griped, quietly, and Stiles grinned toothily at him. As Stiles grabbed his cup, half of which he could have sworn was the cream, he could feel Derek’s eyes on him.

They had stopped at a Starbucks on the way to Derek’s apartment, which was only a few blocks down from the club they had been at. It had calmed Stiles’ nerves, somewhat, to chat with Derek as they walked and then when they waited for their coffee. Stiles had been right in the middle of a story when they had ordered, and as they went back out into the damp San Francisco night, Derek gently bumped their sides together.

“You were talking about your dad catching that coyote,” he prompted, and Stiles rushed to finish the story.

“They ended up having to catch it with a ton of traps,” he said, “because it was unusually strong. Then Dad managed to relocate it to this preserve out in the forests. He doesn’t like to kill things if he can help it. Unless it’s in the form a burger or chicken nugget,” he added, which made Derek chuckle. Stiles licked the mountain of whipped cream in his cup, running his tongue along the edge and closing his eyes in appreciation.

Derek nearly tripped beside him. Stiles stopped, startled, as he watched Derek right himself quickly. “You ok?” he asked, slowly, and Derek’s cheeks were alight as he cleared his throat.

“Yeah, just wasn’t watching where I was going,” Derek said, clearly flustered, and held up his coffee to inspect it. “Didn’t spill any, though.”

“Your coordination and balance skills leave me in awe,” Stiles said, and Derek glared at him.

“Your skills in sarcasm are just as impressive.”

Stiles laughed. “I’m a hundred and forty seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone. Sarcasm is my only defense.” Derek actually chuckled. A car passed by on the road, temporarily blinding Stiles with its bright lights, and when he blinked Derek had caught up with him. They matched each other’s pace, walking along without a sense of urgency. It was quiet, just the sound of them breathing in the air laced with fog, but Stiles felt comfortable. Their coffees were soon finished, the cups thrown away in the nearest trash.

“So your father is the Sheriff?” Derek confirmed, and Stiles nodded. “And your mother?”

Stiles swallowed, and it hurt. He suddenly couldn’t look at Derek. He didn’t know what to say, whether or not he should tell the truth or just change the subject. But then he thought about Derek’s past, about his parents, and he felt like the older man deserved to know. He gazed at the streetlight across the road from them, and muttered, “She’s dead.”

Derek stopped in his tracks, but Stiles kept walking.

“Stiles,” Derek said, but Stiles didn’t look at him. Footsteps picked up behind him, and Derek’s strong hands grabbed his shoulders. “Stiles, whoa, wait up.” He turned Stiles around, looking at his eyes with concern. Stiles tried to avoid meeting his eyes. He didn’t know why he was so upset by this. His mother being dead wasn’t new. “I’m so sorry. I should have known better than to ask. What with my family…”

“It’s ok,” Stiles told him, trying to smile. “I didn’t say it to make you feel bad.”

“Yeah, well…” Derek said, trailing off.

“It happened four years ago,” Stiles blurted, and his fingers were suddenly tapping against his leg again as a wave of unease swept through him. “She… um…” But he suddenly couldn’t continue. He didn’t trust Derek enough yet, not for this. He looked down, shifting nervously. Awesome, now Derek was going to think that he wasn’t interested. He had just blown it. He imagined how miserable it was going to be to walk home alone to a locked apartment, to his roommate who had a great relationship with the girl of his dreams.

“Hey, it’s ok,” Derek said, and Stiles looked up when he felt Derek’s hand shift to his neck. It was the first time that night that Derek’s skin had touched his, without any fabric in between, and Stiles could feel the callouses on his fingers and the heat pouring off him. “We don’t need to talk about it,” Derek said, gently, and brought their foreheads together.

Stiles felt like his heart was bursting. He had been expecting questions, wary looks and a pitying gaze. Maybe even rejection. He had never received anything else. He couldn’t blame people for having that reaction; it was only natural. It didn’t stop him from hating it, dreading it. Having a dead mother came with a lot of baggage, baggage that people didn’t know how to deal with. But Derek was different.

“I…” Stiles said, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Derek’s lips.

“That stuff doesn’t matter to me,” Derek said, his voice soft. “We don’t have to think or talk about that now.” And Stiles felt the significance of that statement sink into his skin: Derek didn’t care that he might have baggage, he understood that Stiles was probably messed up and was interested anyways, and saying _now_ implied that tonight wasn’t going to be a one-time thing, not if Stiles didn’t want it to be.

He surged forward, pressing his mouth against Derek’s. It was a moment of unusual bravery, and when he looked back on the moment Stiles didn’t even remember thinking about the action. It was as if gravity had pulled him in, as if it was inevitable, that their lips were destined to meet at that moment. It was also probably incredibly stupid, but whatever. Derek’s lips were soft, and his stubble brushed against Stiles’ skin. It made it worth it.

There was a moment where Derek had to process what was happening, where his hand nonetheless unconsciously pressed into the back of Stiles’ neck to draw him closer. And then, thank god, his arm looped firmly around his waist, gripping them together. Stiles’ hands were on his shoulders and yes, yes _this_ is what he wanted, what he needed. Derek was gentle with him, slowly allowing Stiles to savor the taste of his lips; but when Stiles opened his mouth, Derek’s tongue instantly dominated his. The kisses became rough, more frantic, and Derek slid his hand from Stiles’ neck to the back of his head. His eyes fluttered, and he had to resist the urge to moan.

Derek moved his face back, slightly out of breath. His hands slid to Stiles’ sides, and after a few seconds he leaned forward and kissed him again. It was short, and sweet, but there was a note of desperation under it all.

“I…” Stiles mumbled, and relaxed into Derek’s body when he kissed him again. “I… um…” He couldn’t think when Derek’s hands were rubbing lightly up and down his sides.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, and Stiles gripped his shoulders and kissed him. They grappled for dominance for a moment, until Derek won. He held Stiles’ face in his hands, soft, then kissed him more fiercely. He tasted like mint and music notes, and within seconds all that Stiles could think about was his throbbing boner. He pulled back slightly, sucking in a breath. He couldn’t imagine the stubble burn he was going to have.

“Can we…”

“Yeah,” Derek mumbled against his lips, and kissed him again. Stiles couldn’t help but grin against his mouth. Derek stopped kissing him, instead running a hand through his dark hair. “Sorry,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, “I just—I wanted to do that for a while now—”

“Me too,” Stiles assured him, pressing into the feel of Derek’s remaining hand on his back. “Where—” he hesitated, “—where is your apartment?”

Derek nodded to a building two doors down. It was tall, painted a dark grey with brick etchings lining it. “Third floor,” Derek told him, and Stiles let himself be guided towards the door.

They kissed in the elevator on the way up, hands scrambling sloppily over each other’s bodies. Derek was gripping his ass and Stiles was looking for any way to slip his fingers under the other man’s tight dress pants when the elevator door opened, the third floor laid out before them. They stumbled out, Derek’s hand on his waist as they continued trying to kiss, arousal pumping through both of them. Derek was scrambling around in his back pocket, trying to find his key, while Stiles sucked and bit on his lip. The older man hissed in pleasure into Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles didn’t know how he had lived 19 years without this.

The door opened with a soft, metallic scrape, and Derek pulled him into the apartment. It was dark, too dark for Stiles too see it all clearly, but he could tell that it was relatively spacious, as far as San Francisco standards went. He let out a gasp when Derek’s hand reached between his legs, cupping his balls as they stepped backwards. Stiles raised his hands to Derek’s shirt, frantically undoing the buttons.

“Watch your step,” Derek said into his mouth, guiding Stiles down what felt like a few steps that led to a bedroom positioned right off the hallway. Derek’s shirt was off now, the light from a streetlight outside the window shining onto his bare chest.

_Holy mother of God._

The back of his knees hit the softness of a mattress, and he let himself be settled back onto it. Derek hovered above him, his mouth working kisses into Stiles’ neck as he undid his shirt. And Stiles realized that this was happening, this was really happening, he was about to have sex with the hottest man he had ever seen, with Derek, who laughed at his jokes and—

Stiles keened as Derek’s hand slipped over the bulge of his jeans. He wanted to thrust into it, feel the friction from the motion, but he held himself back.

Derek paused, just for a moment. “Is this too fast?” he asked, and it was with such sincerity that Stiles felt something in his heart twist. He had never been asked that before, not once.

“No,” he replied, simply, and groaned as Derek’s body settled on top of his, their mouths locking together as the desperation coursed through them both once more. Because Stiles had wanted it, wanted it so badly, and apparently so had Derek, and that made everything so much better.

“Sit up,” Derek said, and Stiles did as he asked. Derek slipped Stiles’ now-unbuttoned shirt off of his shoulders, and he shivered under the green gaze. He was only wearing a white undershirt; and soon Derek had helped him pull it over his head, tossing it to the side. He was suddenly overcome with the paralyzing fear that Derek wouldn’t want him anymore, not when he saw how meager Stiles actually was underneath his clothes. Sure, he had muscles; but not in the defined way that Derek did.

Derek kissed him again, his fingers working the zipper of Stiles’ jeans. In a swift movement he had Stiles standing, and he pulled them off smoothly. His boxers followed. Derek hummed in appreciation when Stiles rushed to do the same to him, and as soon as they were both free he lowered Stiles onto the bed again. He squirmed under Derek’s gaze, watching as his eyes traveled up and down his naked body. He felt exposed under those green eyes, inadequate.

But Derek had captured his lips again, his fingers moving to the inside of Stiles’ thighs. He spread them, slowly, and Stiles gasped into his mouth as Derek placed the smallest bit of pressure into the sensitive spot there.

“You’re gorgeous,” Derek told him, taking another moment to rake his eyes over Stiles’ body. “I can’t believe how perfect you are.” His pupils were blown wide, lustful, and Stiles had never had anyone look at him like that. Sure, he had had sex before, especially in the few months after he moved to San Fran; but it had always been drunken hook-ups at Scott’s college parties, where he had simply filled whatever position the other person wanted for that night. He wasn’t used to this emotional commitment beforehand, wasn’t used to being complemented during sex.

He arched into Derek’s body when the man lazily stroked his cock, making pre-come drip from him. He had been aroused all night, and that was definitely showing now. He tried to stifle a moan. Derek leaned over him, moving his tongue in circles on Stiles’ nipples. His hands came to rest on either side of Stiles’ head.

“What do you want?” he murmured, trailing kisses up to Stiles’ neck. Stiles could feel him marking it lightly with his teeth, gentle bites that made Stiles’ cock remind him that it very much wanted attention. Stiles couldn’t talk. Being asked what he wanted was another thing that he most definitely wasn’t used to. When he didn’t reply, Derek resumed his stroking. “Bottom?” he asked, his eyes searching Stiles’. “Top?”

Stiles had never bottomed before. “I haven’t—” he said, and broke off in a silent moan as Derek moved to his nipples again. “It’s only ever been blowjobs or topping—I—I don’t know how to bottom—”

Truthfully, he didn’t know if he would even last long enough to do either. Derek’s fingers on his cock were already sending him precariously close to the edge. Derek paused, moving his face up to kiss him. Stiles bit his lip, gently, and Derek pressed him into the bed with a grunt of pleasure. Their cocks rubbed together and Stiles tried to stop another groan from escaping him, the friction sending pleasure shooting up his groin.

“Did you like topping?” Derek asked, his voice rough with arousal, and Stiles struggled to think.

“Not as much as other things,” he admitted, breathlessly, and Derek seemed pleased. Stiles had the vague feeling that Derek would have been pleased no matter what he had said.

“Good, because I do,” Derek murmured.

“I—I won’t last,” Stiles gasped to him, and Derek couldn’t help but smirk as he ran his eyes over Stiles’ dick, red and erect.

“That was for future reference, if you want,” Derek reassured him, his voice ghosting over Stiles’ ear, and his dick twitched as Derek’s fingers traced over his hole. “What about this, tonight?” This was new, this was very new, and Stiles wanted it.

“Yes, yes,” he gasped, arching up against Derek to try and get more friction. Derek’s strong hands held his hips firmly down, and Stiles wiggled against him indignantly.

“Derek—” he began, but then let out a loud moan as Derek’s head dipped between his legs. His tongue traced the base of Stiles’ cock and Stiles shivered, panting. He was trying so hard not to be loud, to stop from embarrassing himself—

“Let it go,” Derek murmured, and Stiles realized that the older man’s eyes were on him. “The neighbors are out of town. It’s ok. Hearing you moan—it’s hot.”

Stiles couldn’t believe this was happening. He remembered a drunken hookup, when he had only just stopped being a virgin, where the man he was with had shushed him when he moaned, saying he sounded too feminine, that it was a turn-off. Ever since then, Stiles had tried to quiet himself during sex. He never could have predicted that Derek would _want_ him to be loud.

“Sorry,” Stiles gasped, sweat working down his spine. “I’m used to—” he stopped, his mouth opening again in a silent moan as Derek’s mouth engulfed his dick. His blood was pumping in his ears as Derek’s head bobbed up and down, his throat open as Stiles began to thrust his hips up into his mouth.

Derek lifted his head, his lips slightly swollen, and Stiles realized he had never finished his sentence. “—used to hookups, they don’t like it when the top moans,” he murmured, and felt Derek put the warm weight of his body carefully on top of his own.

“This isn’t a hookup,” Derek said in his ear, and moved his mouth back down to the front of Stiles’ neck, right by his vocal chords. Stiles wanted to hold back the noise, just by instinct; but when Derek’s arm looped behind him and skirted the outside of his hole, he couldn’t help it. He moaned loudly, never having felt such a sensitive area teased at by someone else before, and Derek hummed in approval.

“You’re so sexy,” Derek breathed to him, reaching over to a table next to his bed and sliding open a drawer. Stiles, in his haze of pleasure, saw the tube of lube. The idea of Derek’s fingers inside him made his brain thrum with longing. “Turn over,” Derek instructed, and Stiles’ legs shook as he obeyed. Derek groaned, and Stiles looked back to see the green eyes on his hole. Derek’s cock was dripping now, too.

“Do you touch yourself here?” Derek murmured, and Stiles nodded. He had slipped his fingers inside himself before, had fit up to three; but it was too difficult of a position for him to do it often. He was more of a jerk-off-in-the-shower kinda guy.

He keened as Derek opened the bottle of lube with a small pop, his free thumb pressing against the outside of Stiles’ opening. “We’ll make it easy for you, since you haven’t bottomed before,” Derek said, his voice smooth, and Stiles felt the warm lube press against him. He let out a quiet whine, his hands fisting into the sheets. At his keening, Derek pressed a bit more firmly. Stiles moaned, gripping the headboard with shaking arms as he tried to steady himself. “That’s it,” Derek encouraged. “It’s ok to let me know you like it.”

He gasped as he felt Derek’s finger, slick with lube, slide slowly into him. He moaned Derek’s name, and Derek spread Stiles’ legs further apart with an appreciative groan. Stiles moved back into his finger, wanting _more,_ wanting to be filled.

“Another,” he gasped out, and the older man hummed in consent. Derek slipped in a second finger, and Stiles keened again. Derek moved his fingers in and out, leaving Stiles shaking and gasping, barely able to hold his chest off the bed. He was scissoring him, stretching him out. It was just painful enough to send tendrils of pleasure into Stiles’ toes.

“Good?” Derek asked, sounding out of breath, and Stiles nodded.

“More,” he begged, and the noise that escaped him when Derek slipped in a third finger was desperate. Derek pressed up against him, his fingers stroking Stiles’ cock as he slid his fingers deep in, withdrew them, and repeated the motion. The stretch was amazing, with a faint sting that didn’t actually hurt and instead worked to increase his pleasure twofold.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” Derek told him, his voice hoarse from his arousal, and Stiles couldn’t respond in anything but a moan. Suddenly, Derek’s fingers had found his prostate, pressing against it firmly, and he let out a strangled groan. Derek’s fingers filled him better than Stiles’ own ever had, and Stiles was on the verge of collapse as they pumped against him.

Derek was still talking. “Ever since I saw you eating that whipped cream,” he murmured, and Stiles flashed back to the coffee at the airport, “And then today, you tease, you were just licking that cream over and over. I could only imagine what else your mouth could do. I couldn’t stop thinking about it all swollen and red, wrapped around my cock. And then I just wanted to be inside you, to fill you over and over—”

And Stiles moaned, pushed over the edge at Derek’s words and the quick, powerful strokes the man was delivering to his cock. His body shook from the strength of the orgasm, come spilling onto the bed as he gasped for air.

Shakily, he buried his face in his pillow with an exhale of hot breath as Derek withdrew his fingers. He hadn’t lasted long, and he wasn’t sure whether or not he felt humiliated or happy. Derek was pressing kisses to his spine, murmuring softly to him. Stiles’ cheeks were flushed, his hands trembling as Derek’s hands stroked his sides. Mustering some strength, Stiles flipped himself over to look at Derek. The man was looking at him, a sheen of sweat across his muscled chest. If Stiles was still in high school, he knew he would be ready to go again just from looking at Derek’s naked body.

Instead, he shifted forward, spreading Derek’s legs. Derek caught his hands, then sealed their lips in a kiss. “You don’t have to,” he murmured, but Stiles shook his head and slipped a hand down to Derek’s erection. Derek groaned quietly against him, his head falling back to expose the expanse of his tan neck as Stiles’ fingers stroked the tip.

“Blowjob?” Stiles asked him, realizing he didn’t have the strength for much else, and he felt Derek twitch under him. He nodded, letting out a grunt of pleasure as Stiles bent down. Stiles may not have understood how to be a bottom, but he did know how to swallow cock. He ran his tongue around Derek, the older man fisting his fingers into the sheets so he wouldn’t subject Stiles’ hair to harsh tugging.

Derek let out a noise in the back of his throat as Stiles licked the inside of his thighs, trailing his tongue up Derek’s base. “Stiles,” Derek began, but was cut off. In a swift movement, Stiles bobbed down onto Derek’s dick. He heard him give a grunt of pleasure as he moved up and down, using his tongue to taste the pre-come that was heavy in his mouth. Derek leaned forward slightly, soaking in the sight of Stiles swallowing him.

“You’re sinful,” Derek grunted, closing his eyes briefly, and then forcing them open so he could watch again. Their eyes met, and Stiles kept their gazes locked as he went up and down, up and down. He sucked, just lightly, feeling the heavy weight on his tongue. Derek gave up on the sheets with a groan, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair and murmuring nonsense praises. Stiles worked faster. His eyes told Derek what he could do, and Derek began to thrust his hips slowly into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles forced his throat to relax around Derek’s cock, larger than what he was normally used to dealing with. He closed his eyes, arousal shooting through him as he realized he was in possession of Derek, that he could just bend down and make him moan in pleasure. He was, he reflected as the thrusts became more desperate, incredibly grateful that he loved whipped cream so much and that Derek apparently had a mouth kink.

Suddenly Derek was tugging on his hair. “I’m going to come,” he gasped, and Stiles pulled back. His hands replaced his mouth, and he pumped Derek’s cock with fast strokes. Derek came with a strangled moan, his come covering Stiles’ fingers and spilling onto his stomach. His muscles rippled as he rode out the orgasm, and Stiles wished he could capture this moment in something more than memory.

They both sat there for a moment, panting, pupils blown wide and lips red and swollen. Then Derek leaned forward, wiping his hand on the sheets so he could wrap it around Stiles’ waist. He pulled him close, their cocks rubbing together as they kissed. Stiles was exhausted, the high from his orgasm fading fast, but he kissed back anyways.

“God, your mouth,” Derek mumbled against him, his stubble scratching Stiles’ face, and Stiles retaliated by gently tugging on Derek’s lower lip. Derek groaned. “I’ll grab something to clean us up,” he said, his finger running down Stiles’ spine, and he shivered with pleasure. Derek got up, walking unsteadily out of the room and into what Stiles assumed was the bathroom. In shock, and awe, Stiles looked around him. Hesitantly, he pinched himself. It hurt, so at least this wasn’t some dream that would end with him waking up with a hard-on.

They both wiped down with a washcloth soaked in warm water, and Stiles sat on the edge of the bed as Derek pulled off the come-covered blankets. He put them in a heap on the floor, pulling out another blanket that was stored underneath the bed. With a sigh that was pure contentment, Derek sat down next to Stiles and then let his back fall onto the mattress.

With the high of sex wearing off, and more exhaustion hitting him, Stiles felt self-doubt and anxiety begin to emerge. What now? He knew Derek had said this wouldn’t be a one-time thing, but Stiles had never had more than a quick fling before. He had always gone home right after sex. Should he leave, now?

He felt Derek’s warm hand press against his back. “Hey,” he murmured, forest green eyes on Stiles, “you ok? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No!” Stiles said quickly, leaning back into Derek’s heat. “No, trust me: that was amazing.” Derek grinned and Stiles couldn’t help but blush.

“Glad you thought so too,” he said, his fingers trying to guide Stiles to lay next to him, but Stiles was tense.

“I—um, I just didn’t know if… if I should leave or not.”

Even in the dark, Stiles could see Derek’s eyebrows furrow. The man sat up, turning Stiles to face him. He ran his hands down Stiles’ arms. He was silent for a moment, clearly trying to find what exactly to say. “Do you want to go?” he asked eventually, his voice calm, accepting, and Stiles couldn’t shake his head fast enough.

“No, no. I don’t. I just…” He trailed off, not knowing how to explain.

“Then stay,” Derek said, and he leaned forward to kiss Stiles. It was soft and sweet, and Stiles felt like his limbs were melting as he shifted to press himself against Derek’s skin. Derek trailed kisses down Stiles’ neck, ending at his collarbone. He looked up at Stiles. “I want you to stay,” he said, and Stiles didn’t need any more convincing.


	4. Chapter 4

When Stiles woke up, sunlight was streaming onto his face, sending apricot-gold light dancing through the room. He blinked a few times, head fuzzy with sleep, and shifted around. He felt someone move next to him, just slightly, and froze.

Derek was beside to him, his chest moving slowly up and down as he gazed up at the ceiling. Stiles was tucked into his side, one of Derek’s arms behind his neck, their chests touching. Stiles looked at him, blinking, taking in the sight of his tan chest and sculpted body. He didn’t know how long Derek had been in the land of the living before him, but the older man looked pretty awake. Stiles hoped he hadn’t woken up too far after Derek.

Derek felt his gaze and glanced down. When he saw that Stiles was awake, a small smile graced his lips. “Good morning,” he murmured, and Stiles yawned in response. Derek chuckled.

“Hey,” Stiles said, his voice hoarse from sleep, and he rolled over to look for a clock. As he did so, he stretched. The bed was spacious, much more so than the full-sized one back in his apartment. “What time is it?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, and Derek shifted so that he was pressed gently against Stiles’ back. His strong hand rubbed on Stiles’ upper arm, and Stiles couldn’t help but relax into the touch.

“It’s only seven thirty,” Derek said, nuzzling Stiles’ neck with his stubble. Stiles laughed, ticklish, and he felt Derek smile into his skin. Stiles flipped himself over, facing Derek, and the older man leaned in and kissed him. A second later, they both made a face.

“Morning breath,” Stiles whispered, cheeks red, and Derek laughed. He ran a hand through Stiles’ hair, and together they settled down back into the soft mattress. It was quiet for a few moments. Stiles, characteristically, broke it. “What are you doing today?” he asked, laying on his back next to Derek. Derek turned, propping himself up on one arm so he could look at him.

“Audition,” he said, not seeming pleased, and Stiles looked at him questioningly. “I’m trying to land a spot in the Association of Classical Music today, and they’re really selective. It’s later this afternoon.”

“Oh god,” Stiles said, sitting up quickly. “Do you need me to go?”

Derek sat up with him. “No,” he said, simply, and pressed a hand against Stiles’ back. “Unless you have something you need to do.”

“I don’t,” Stiles said truthfully, not even caring if it seemed like he didn’t have a life. Today had just been planned as a lazy day, one that he might have used to edit the Ulta photos, but now would hopefully have Derek play much more of a role.

“How does breakfast sound, then?” Derek asked, and Stiles only then realized just how hungry he actually was. He hadn’t eaten most of yesterday, too nervous to swallow much—well, he realized, except Derek’s cock.

“Yes, please,” Stiles said, grinning in embarrassment as he felt his stomach rumble. Derek chuckled again. They got dressed, Stiles watching in appreciation as Derek put on his jeans and shirt. His biceps flexed as he pulled the shirt over his head, the dark blue garment clinging to his chest and sides. It was a shame that clothes were necessary, because Stiles would have been more than happy to stare at that perfectly sculpted body all day. Stiles pulled on his white undershirt and dress pants, the only clothes he had from the night before, and he could see Derek’s eyes flicking to him.

Stiles looked around the room, now able to see clearly with the sun streaming in. Derek was on the top floor of the apartment building, and the window that had been letting in the sunlight was located on the ceiling above his bed. Another window, located to the side of the room and next to the bathroom, gave a view of the streets. The floor was made of wood, cool under Stiles’ bare feet, the walls a soft grey that created a relaxed, modern feeling. He had been right about the bedroom being slightly indented into the floor, and was glad that he hadn’t tripped over the stairs last night.

He turned and saw that Derek was waiting for him by the door to the bedroom. “Nice place,” Stiles said, continuing to look around as they left. Their arms brushed, casually, and Derek shrugged. “What? Do you not like it?”

“No, I like it,” Derek said, glancing around at the open floorplan. “I just don’t get much attachment to places, that’s all.” There were three other rooms in the apartment: one had its door closed, and Stiles could not see what lay inside; then, a large living room, which had a leather couch and a TV, separated by a dark wood table; and a kitchen, full of wooden cabinets, a dark granite countertop, and gas-burning appliances. It looked fancy, and modern, and Stiles cringed inwardly at the state of his own apartment.

“How do you even afford this?” he asked, and Derek paused. He was quiet for a few seconds, and just as Stiles was about to change the subject the older man cleared his throat.

“Money from my parents. They saved up a lot for our college,” he said, and the gruffness in his voice made Stiles drop the topic. He gave a small confirmation noise in his throat and started looking around again. Derek looked to be painstakingly neat, with no dust or dirt anywhere to be seen. But Stiles couldn’t help think that the apartment lacked a little bit of warmth, of something that made it Derek’s in particular. There were no photos, save for one that was propped against the back kitchen wall.

“Uh,” Stiles began, and Derek glanced at him. He blushed again. “Can I—do you have a toothbrush I could use?”

“Oh,” Derek said, as if he had completely forgotten about the incident earlier that morning. He made an awkward motion towards the door to the bedroom. “Yeah, it’s just—I have a spare under the counter.”

He did. Stiles stared at himself in the mirror while he brushed his teeth, attempting to smoothe down his mess of hair with one hand. After about two minutes, he gave up with a sigh, spat out the toothpaste, and wandered back to the kitchen.

Derek was rummaging through the fridge as Stiles sat down at a stool positioned by the counter, his back to the living room as he watched the process unfold. He glanced at the lone photo, surprised that he recognized the two other people besides Derek: Cora and Laura. They looked like they were by a beach, and it couldn’t have been that long ago. They were smiling, Cora and Laura’s arms wrapped around Derek’s waist, his arms slung over their shoulders. Stiles had never seen Derek give a grin that toothy, that sincere before.

Derek was frowning, his brow furrowed as he moved aside some take-out boxes and a carton of milk. Stiles realized what the problem was before Derek even looked back up at him. “Don’t worry, my fridge is pretty damn empty. Scott and I are broke,” he said, grinning, and Derek groaned.

“I could have sworn I had some eggs in here,” he griped, continuing to search, and Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. Derek sighed and straightened up, closing the fridge with an apologetic look back at Stiles. Before he could open his mouth, though, Stiles had gotten up off of his stool and crossed over to him. The marble floor of the kitchen sent goosebumps up his arms, but he wrapped them around Derek’s neck and kissed him anyways. Derek’s arms circled his waist, bringing him close as Stiles opened his mouth to give his tongue entrance. To his surprise, Derek tasted like mint. _Sneaky,_ he thought, noticing the small pack of gum sitting on the kitchen counter.

As they paused to breathe, Derek chuckled. “I should run out of breakfast food more often,” he joked, and Stiles laughed. He moved his hands to Derek’s shoulders. He didn’t know why this felt so easy, so incredibly natural with Derek. They fell from being hesitant strangers into filling the actions of a couple seamlessly, and even though they hadn’t labeled themselves yet, Stiles felt like this was a serious thing.

“It’s good,” he said, and Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “It means you weren’t assuming I would come back with you,” he explained, and Derek looked sheepish.

“I was hoping you would, but—” he faltered when Stiles’ eyes lit up with joy, and his tan cheeks flushed, “but, um, I didn’t know… I wasn’t sure if you swung towards men. And even if you did, I didn’t want to assume—”

Stiles kissed him again. He didn’t think he could ever get tired of this, of feeling Derek’s lips attempt to dominate his own. “Definitely bi,” he said into his mouth, and Derek kissed him more firmly.

“Definitely gay,” Derek mumbled back, and Stiles squeezed his shoulders. He felt Derek turn them around, pressing Stiles’ back against the cold metal of the stainless steel fridge. The heat pouring off Derek soaked into his skin as the older man leaned forward, pressing kisses and soft bites against his neck and collarbone. Blood rushed to his dick, its interest in the situation rapidly increasing as Derek ran his hand around the edge of Stiles’ waistband. He whined quietly into Derek’s mouth, and Derek pressed their bodies together, moving his mouth up to Stiles’ as the kisses became more urgent. He could feel Derek’s erection pushing against his own as they ground their bodies together, a wave of self-satisfaction coming over him as he realized that he could make Derek just as lustful as he himself was.

And in another moment of fate not being on his side, his stomach rumbled loudly. There was a moment of silence, and then the humiliation hit. Stiles felt his ears flush and, gradually, Derek shook with laughter. Disgruntled, Stiles shrugged out of his hold and pouted.

“Yeah, ok, I’m hungry,” he said, rolling his eyes, and glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 8:15. He didn’t think he had ever been up this early in his life. Rubbing a hand over his face, and trying to ignore the tightness in his jeans, he attempted to prioritize. Sex probably wasn’t happening, not right now, not when Derek had such a big audition coming up soon. If he wasn’t going to have sex, then he needed to eat.

“What do you want, then?” Derek asked, and Stiles had to resist the urge to say, _“You.”_ Instead, he turned to Derek and motioned to the cabinets.

“Coffee,” he insisted, and Derek raised his eyebrows at him. “I need coffee before I can even think about where to go for breakfast.”

“Ok,” Derek said, glancing over at his jacket, which was slung over the bedroom door handle. Stiles followed his gaze, confused. “I don’t have a coffee machine.”

Stiles gaped at him in shock. “Wha—are you serious?” he demanded, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“I don’t drink much coffee.”

“Oh, this is so totally over then,” Stiles said, motioning between the two of them. His voice was laced with humor, but a brief look of worry crossed Derek’s face before he realized Stiles was joking. He laughed as Derek scowled.

“Since I don’t have one here, we could go out and get some. There’s a local place pretty close by.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Stiles said, tearing his gaze away from Derek’s tight shirt and looking around for his shoes. He realized they were still in the bedroom, and made a move to head back in to grab them.

“Want to make a date of it, then?” Derek asked, leaning against the countertop with his eyes on Stiles, and Stiles froze. His heart skipped, then began pitter-pattering happily against his skin. It was silly, he knew, to be so excited to go on a date with someone who he had already slept with not twelve hours prior. But it still made his pulse pick up to think of them out in public, on an official date. He liked Derek; liked him a lot, enough that he would be more than happy to go on many, many dates with him and spend many, many nights in his bed. The idea of holding his hand, kissing him with others around, showing the world what he had—well, that was a pleasant thought.

“Sure,” he said, his voice unsteady, and went into the bedroom to retrieve his things.

* * *

 

Stiles looked at Lydia expectantly from his seat at his desk, his eyebrows raised as he waited for a reaction. She was pursing her lips, swirling a nonfat latte distractedly as she contemplated what Stiles had just said. He had just finished telling the story of what had happened the night before, details included.

“So…” she finally said, and Stiles straightened up. “The sex was good?”

Stiles groaned. “Is that _all_ you got out of that whole story?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Unlike you, Stiles, I already knew that he had invited you to the gig so that he could charm your socks off and then shag you senseless. I wasn’t expecting him to take you out to coffee this morning, but that’s a lovely bonus.”

It had been a bonus. Stiles and Derek had chatted all the way to the coffee shop, their shoulders brushing, enjoying the unusually pleasant rays of sunshine that had streamed onto the sidewalk from the clear skies above. They got coffee (for Derek: a dark roast with no room; for Stiles: a dark chocolate latte with copious amount of whipped cream, which he purposefully licked with his eyes locked on the older man) and croissants, and two hours had passed before they had emerged back into the real world. Stiles hadn’t been able to stop himself from staring at Derek, from feeling butterflies in his stomach when he realized that he had just slept with him, been accepted by him—no, been _wanted._ They had kissed outside the shop, lightly, chastely, but with a sweetness that was more sincere than anything Stiles had ever before felt.

“I want to see you again, soon,” Derek had murmured to him, his hand finding the back of Stiles’ neck, and he had nodded vigorously in agreement. They had agreed to text each other their schedules in the hopes of finding some free time to meet, and had parted ways. Stiles had watched him go, a strange ache in his chest that was both painful and pleasant. Part of him wanted to ask if they were a thing, if they were exclusive, if Derek actually wanted to date him or if it was a long-term friends with benefits interaction. But he couldn’t really manage the effort to care, not right now, not when he had just experienced some of the best sex of his life.

Stiles sighed. “Yes,” he told Lydia, “the sex was _amazing._ ” Stiles had had sex enough to know that it was rare to have fantastic sex on the first hook-up with someone. His first time was, to be quite blunt, terrible. He was too nervous and the other man too experienced to be satisfied, and it had been a complete mess and shot to his confidence. It was something you got over, but that didn’t make it less unpleasant. Stiles was incredibly thankful that he didn’t seem to have that problem with Derek.

“Even without penetration?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee, and Stiles let out a little whine of longing.

“Well he used his fingers—”

“Don’t need to hear this, bro!” Scott shouted from his room next door, and Lydia laughed as Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I heard all about you and Kira, and I _still_ hear you and Kira!” he said, indignantly, and Scott shut up. He grinned, turning back to Lydia. She was smiling, clearly satisfied that she had been right about the entire thing.

“Has he texted you yet?” she asked, and Stiles looked down at his phone with a frown.

“Not yet. He has an audition for some classical music group or something, he’s probably getting ready for that. But I texted him my schedule.”

She pursed her lips. “Well then you better get your work done, because I don’t see much free time in your future from now on.” When Stiles started to protest, she shushed him. “Babe, you can think whatever you want about this, but everything Derek is doing points to him wanting this to be serious.”

“You can’t know that.”

“You’re right,” she said, and Stiles raised his eyebrows in surprise, “but I can sure as hell predict, and my predictions are _never_ wrong.”

At this, Stiles snorted. “What about when you thought Scott would get a Lacrosse scholarship, or when you claimed that Danny was _for sure_ going to date that 25-year-old from Chicago?”

“We don’t talk about that,” she said, and Stiles laughed. Lydia smiled, and then turned serious. “Don’t play yourself short though, Stiles. I think he really likes you.”

“Why?” he demanded, and despite how much he didn’t want to sound desperate or self-doubting or fearful, he did. She smiled kindly at him, reaching out to touch the screen with her fingers.

“You told him about your mom, right?” This made Stiles’ heart lurch. This was a serious topic, for both of them. He and Lydia had both lost something that day.

“Only a little,” Stiles mumbled, and Lydia face softened into a sad smile as they both remembered the events of the past. Stiles struggled with talking to anyone about it, even her. It had, after all, been four years. Stiles felt as if he should, somehow, be “over it” by now. Lydia had recovered much more quickly than he had; or maybe she was just better at covering it up. He couldn’t be sure, with Lydia.

“Well, most people wouldn’t want to take someone who had that much past trauma out to coffee. At the very least they would want to know what happened. But you said it yourself, hun: Derek didn’t care.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, not meeting her eyes. “Yeah, that’s true. I just…” He trailed off, then looked back up at her. “I just don’t get why he would want _me,_ you know? Out of all the people he could have been with.”

Lydia smiled at him, and it was with a softness that spoke of sad understanding. “You’ll never understand until you start loving yourself, Stiles,” she said, and it was so cheesy that Stiles almost laughed. His mouth twitched up into a smile, and Lydia glared at him. “I’m serious. You need to rock some confidence, I bet it looks good on you!”

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” he said, rolling his eyes again, but then he gave her a genuine smile. “Thanks, Lyds.”

“Anytime, darling,” she said, and they signed off. Stiles closed his laptop shut, leaning back in his chair and running his hands through his messy hair. He felt like he was dreaming. He heard Scott hover by the door, take a step in, then change his mind and go back to his room. Stiles couldn’t tell if he wanted to just be completely alone and process, or if he wanted to go out and tell every single person that he had just had sex with Derek Fucking Hale.

He decided to take a nap.

His dreams were strange, full of unintelligible whispers and long shadows that stretched across red fields of daisies. He dreamed that he was trapped in the field, that he couldn’t reach the end of it no matter how far he ran or how much he screamed for help. No one came. The sky was a bloody, rotting orange and smoke was slowly filling it, seeping through the cracks in the ground and the veins of the flowers. He tried to cover his mouth, coughing violently, falling to his knees as the smoke filled his lungs. And he looked up, eyes watering, and in the sky something was falling, falling, falling—a mass of metal, fire spewing from the windows and screams breaking the glass—

He woke up to his phone ringing, covered in sweat.

Rolling over, his eyes blurry with sleep and his heart pounding from the nightmare, he scrambled for his phone, which was lying on the bedside table. Disoriented, he blinked a few times so he could see the caller ID. He didn’t recognize it.

“Hello?” he asked, his voice hoarse, and coughed.

“Hey, Stiles! How are you?”

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. The clock showed that it was 7pm. He had been out for a while. To top that off, Stiles had no idea who the voice belonged to. “I’m sorry, but who is this exactly?”

“I’m insulted!” the voice said, humor dripping from it, and Stiles didn’t have the energy or brainpower to care. “Cora Hale, Derek’s sister?”

 _Oh my god,_ Stiles mouthed, silently, jumping up and nearly tripping over a jacket that was lying uselessly on the floor. “Oh—oh, hi,” he said, lamely, and wanted to smack himself on the forehead. “Er… how did you get my number?”

“Your website,” Cora said, slowly, clearly doubting his intelligence, and Stiles wanted to curl up in a corner and die.

“Oh, right,” he said. There was a moment of silence. “So, um, what’s up?”

“I have a request for you,” she said, and Stiles felt his stomach plummet. Various scenarios flashed through his head: Cora telling him to stay away from Derek, Cora saying that Derek was already taken, Cora insisting that he leave San Francisco and never show his face again, Cora demanding he give her his test results to prove he was clean. His panic was interrupted when Cora said, “I’d love for you to do a photoshoot of HaleFire sometime this week.”

Stiles had not been expecting that, not in the slightest. He stood, openmouthed, in the center of his bedroom, unable to speak. He only snapped out of it when Cora’s voice, on the other end, asked, “Stiles? Are you still there?”

“I’m still here!” he said, the words tumbling over each other, and he cleared his throat. His mind raced. “What kind of photoshoot?”

“We might be releasing an album sometime this year,” she said, “and I want us to have a cool cover. I figured you could capture one of the band, maybe PhotoShop it a little to add some cool effects, and then convert it to a cover.”

Stiles knew that he could easily do that. But he hesitated. “I’m not opposed to it,” he said, slowly, “but I’ll have to ask Derek if he is ok with it, first. Since we… um…” His ears heated up. He didn’t want to explain the complexities of this to Derek’s sister, of all people. But he didn’t want Derek feeling awkward to have a guy he had slept with take his photos, especially if Derek never wanted to see him again.

There was silence on the other end, and Stiles imagined Cora taking out a knife and stabbing it through his throat at his semi-refusal. His fingers tapped nervously on his leg, but to his surprise the next thing he heard was Cora laughing.

“Oh, I like you,” she said, and Stiles felt himself flush with embarrassed confusion.

“What?”

“You’re much better the people that he’s dated in the past; not that I’m saying you’re dating, of course.” Stiles felt conflicted, partly enjoying the praise but unable to stop his mind envisioning faceless men pressing themselves up against Derek’s sculpted body. He tried to quell his jealousy. “But it’s cute how much you’re looking out for him. Yes, I like you. I can live with waiting for Derek to say he’s ok with it. Which, by the way, he will. You call him, and then get back to me. Does this Thursday at 3pm work for you?”

Stiles was scrambling around, looking for his laptop. “One second,” he told her, booting it up. As he located the file, he said, “By the way: early morning or early evening are more ideal photo times, at least if you were planning an outdoor shoot.”

“I was thinking the park,” she said, and Stiles finally found the file. He glanced at his list for Thursday. He remembered that he had some senior portraits booked in the morning, all the way down by the Golden Gate.

“I have something that morning, but I can do an evening slot. Probably from four to six,” he said. “Does Golden Gate Park work? You’ll have to fill out the form on my website, which goes over pricing and my policies, and you can put in the time and exact location. We’ll all get an email confirmation. If Derek is comfortable with it, that is.”

She laughed again. “Yeah, ok, well I’m going to assume that’s happening. Call me after you talk to Der.”

The line went blank, and Stiles looked at his phone to see that she had hung up. He scowled, exasperated, and let his back fall onto his bed once more. But he shot back up when he realized that he had an unread text message. It was from Derek, and Stiles felt his throat constrict.

**Stiles, sorry for late reply. I’m open this Thursday evening, but not before then.**

Stiles sighed in disappointment. No matter what, he wouldn’t be seeing Derek until Thursday, then. He struggled for a moment on what to say, not sure if he should inquire how the audition went or if he should just jump right into what Cora had asked. Derek hadn’t said anything about the audition—did that mean it went terribly? Was he waiting for Stiles to ask? What if he didn’t want to talk about it?

Conflicted, Stiles shot a text back. **No biggie. Your sis called, wanted me to do a shoot of HF Thurs night. What you think?**

Not even two minutes had passed before his phone was ringing, Derek’s number coming up on the caller ID.

“Hey, Derek,” he said, and he couldn’t help but smile slightly, even though he was nervous, when Derek’s voice came through the other end.

“Stiles,” Derek said, almost as if he was startled that the younger man had even picked up. “Hey. What’s happening?”

“Same old, same old,” Stiles admitted, and then grinned. “Not as good as I was this morning when I woke up, though.” He knew Derek would be grinning at that, but didn’t give him a chance to reply. “How did your audition go?” He figured he might as well get the question over with.

There was a moment of shocked silence. “You remembered?” Derek said, his voice full of surprised warmth, and Stiles fidgeted with the blankets on his bed.

“Of course I did,” he said, before he could stop himself, and then closed his mouth with a snap. Now was not the time to give off creeper vibes. He had only met Derek three weeks ago. It didn’t matter that Stiles felt he had known him longer. They were only a little while in, and Stiles wasn’t supposed to remember Derek’s schedule that well. He had only briefly mentioned it this morning, after all.

“It went really well, I think,” Derek said, and Stiles breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Good! When do you find out if you got in?”

“Friday,” Derek said, and then let out a sigh. “Speaking of the week: Cora called you?”

“Er, yeah,” Stiles said, the awkwardness returning, and he told Derek what Cora had proposed. Derek listened, silent, on the other end. Stiles trailed off, unsure of what to say. Eventually, he added, “I mean, it’s totally up to you. That’s your family, your space. I totally get if you don’t want me there, it’s such a personal thing, plus it’s your band cover, you probably want a professional, right?” He was blabbering now. “And I totally get that it would be awkward to have me take the photos, since we spent a night together but aren’t dating or whatever—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted, and Stiles shut his mouth. “I would love to have you take the photos,” he said, and continued on with a frown in his voice, “but only if that’s what _you_ want.”

“What?” Stiles said, dumbstruck, and then shook his head to clear it. “I mean—of course I want to. It would be amazing. I’ve never done a band shoot before.” He had also never done of shoot of someone he had seen naked, but he wasn’t going to say that because it made his mind take a more erotic spin. Another thought popped into his head. “After, do you… do you want to get pizza, or something?”

“Yes,” Derek said, instantly, and Stiles grinned.

* * *

 

So that was what had Stiles rushing to the Golden Gate Park at 3:55 on Thursday, his equipment slung over his shoulder and the sun shining on his neck. It was a beautiful day, one of the better of the week, and Stiles had managed to find just enough time to change after the Senior Portrait shoot so that he could look casual when shooting HaleFire. He liked to dress up for most of his clients, but he didn’t feel like that would be necessary for Derek and his family.

He got to the park just in time, looking around to try and locate the Hales. They had agreed to meet by one of the bridges, and Stiles stood there nervously tapping his foot as his head swiveled left and right. He was starting to worry that he had come to the wrong place or, even worse, that the entire phone call had been a dream.

“Stiles!” called a voice, and he turned. His face broke out in a grin as he saw Derek jogging towards him. He looked gorgeous, in a muted red T-shirt and dark jeans. His dark hair was styled, just slightly, and as he got closer Stiles smelled the faint traces of sweat and cologne.

“Derek—” he began, in greeting, but nearly fell backwards when Derek skidded to a halt in front of him and kissed him. Derek grabbed his arms, steadying him as he deepened the kiss, and Stiles enthusiastically reciprocated. He wanted to bite Derek’s lip, but he somehow felt that wasn’t appropriate for the situation. He saw a few older couples glanced worriedly at them, skirting around with a wide range.

Derek broke away, pressing his forehead against Stiles’ as they both caught their breath. They were both grinning. “As I was saying,” Stiles murmured, smirking, “hello.”

“Hey,” Derek replied, his grin widening. His eyes traveled up and down Stiles’ body, taking in the sight of his well-fit shirt and jeans. “You look amazing.”

Stiles blushed, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “I could say the same for you,” he replied, feeling shy, and Derek grinned. He kissed him again. Stiles still couldn’t believe that Derek was with him right now, their mouths pressing together and one of Derek’s arms around his waist.

“You’re right on time,” Derek said, eventually, slipping his fingers down to Stiles’ hands.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Stiles exclaimed dramatically, and looked around again. “Um, where is everyone else?”

“The girls decided they wanted to shoot closer to the Japanese garden,” Derek said, rolling his eyes slightly. “They sent me to fetch you.”

“Was it scary walking through the haunted park all by yourself?” Stiles teased, and Derek scowled at him. He turned, his hand lacing with Stiles’ as he pulled him along. Stiles felt like his heart could be running a marathon. Their fingers were intertwined, and Stiles flashed back to when Lydia had once told him that there was scientific evidence supporting the idea that couples who laced their finger together, instead of simply just slipping their hands together when they held hands, were more intimately connected. It was such a lovestruck girl thought that Stiles quickly pushed it away, catching up with Derek’s long strides so they could walk shoulder-to-shoulder. He squeezed Derek’s hand, just slightly, and Derek turned to look at him with a smile.

“Good week?” he asked, and Derek nodded.

“I got to play at this event for a new bakery that opened,” he said, “and they gave me a ton of free baked goods. I think I have enough bread to survive a plague.” Stiles laughed. But then Derek frowned. “Yesterday I had to judge this kids’ piano contest though, at one of the local schools. It was so…” Derek trailed off, clearly lost for words. Stiles tilted his head at him.

“Not a fan of children?” he asked, and Derek shook his head quickly.

“I don’t mind them,” he said, “but I, uh… I guess I never really know how to react to kids, you know?” He glanced over at Stiles, and then grinned. “Actually, I doubt you know. I bet you get along great with kids.”

“Child at heart,” Stiles said, grinning toothily. “You just need to play games with them, you know? Let them be Batman and Batwoman, run around and pretend to shoot things. I always end up being Robin, though. I don’t want to be Robin all the time. But you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Derek snorted. “You would make a terrible Batman. You’re not nearly stealthy enough.” They bickered about the subject for the next few minutes, walking down the winding path at a leisurely pace. Stiles half wished that he didn’t have to do the photoshoot at all, that he could just continue talking to Derek like this for the entire evening. But as they rounded a corner, the Japanese Gardens came into view. They were in full bloom, what with it being late spring and all, and the floral smell reached Stiles’ nose almost instantly. The other Hales were there, sitting at the table underneath the small temple that was in the center of the gardens, chatting.

Stiles came to a stop, knowing he wouldn’t have a private moment with Derek for the next hour or two. Derek paused as well, half a step ahead, and glanced back at him with a puppy-like confusion. “Not to sound like a total sap,” Stiles said, “but I really missed you.” He felt silly saying it, childish; but he was caught breathless when something in Derek’s eyes changed. They widened, just slightly, and the forest green seemed to lighten with the faintest shades of blue. He had never seen Derek’s eyes so beautiful, so open.

Derek took a step towards Stiles, a tree on the path casting a shadow onto both of them. He leaned down, just slightly, and kissed him. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, closing his eyes as Derek gently tilted his head back with his mouth.

“Hey!” called a voice, and they broke apart with a start. Derek glared at Cora, who had her hands on her hips and was turned towards them, a look of disgust on her face. “It’s already 4:15, boys! Your make-out session can wait!”

Derek rolled his eyes, but turned them back to Stiles. He pressed their foreheads together, something that Stiles was starting to realize was a thing that they did, something between them, something special. “I missed you too,” Derek whispered, and gave him another quick peck on the lips. “I…” He hesitated. “I really like you, Stiles. You know that, right?”

His heart was swelling in his chest, like a balloon, and it was the most pleasantly painful experience Stiles could recall having for quite some time. Stiles moved up, kissing Derek just as quickly. “Yes,” he confirmed, feeling alive and enchanted. “I like you a lot, too.”

The grin Derek gave him was dazzling. “Good,” he said, practically humming with contentment, and Stiles smiled. They looked at each other for a moment, until it was almost overwhelming—and Derek yelped when Stiles unexpectedly squeezed his ass. The cuteness of the moment was broken as Derek started laughing in shock, and Stiles couldn’t help but sheepishly join in. That was the thing about Derek: just when the situation could have become too intense or awkward, he somehow managed to make it casual again, by letting Stiles be himself. Now that Stiles was beginning to know him, he couldn’t imagine Derek the way he was on the plane when they first met. He had been so serious then, so mysterious. Well, he was still mysterious—but it was a different flavor. Every single time he met Derek, he liked him more.

“Oi, lovebirds! Are we gonna do this shoot, or what?” called Peter, and with a sigh Derek turned back to face them. His grip on Stiles’ hand tightened, just slightly, and they started walking forward. Stiles began looking carefully around and he climbed up a few steps, trying to examine the lighting and positioning of the environment.

Laura got up and hugged Stiles, tightly, accidentally forcing him to break his hand-hold with Derek. But Stiles couldn’t help but smile anyways as he hugged her back, feeling unexpectedly warm and fuzzy by her happiness and acceptance. Cora simply started pestering Derek about how late they were, while Peter shook Stiles’ hands with a rather wicked sparkle in his eyes. “Alright, Stiles,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Where do you want us?”


	5. Chapter 5

“A little to the right, Cora,” Stiles said, and Cora moved her hip so it was pressing against Derek’s side. Derek nearly scowled, but Stiles glared at him over the camera. “Don’t any of you dare even _twitch,_ ” he said, and Laura had to control her face as she nearly laughed.

Shooting with the Hales was easy, effortless. Stiles felt perfectly comfortable with them, enough to joke around during practically the entire hour that had gone by. They took direction well, probably because they were so used to preforming in front of others while still looking good, and they were a photogenic group. Clearly, as Stiles had predicted when he first met Derek, they had lucked out in the gene pool.

He snapped a few more photos, then quickly scanned them to make sure they looked ok. He had a lot of photos, some that he had orchestrated and others that had been stealthier in nature. He had one of Cora and Laura laughing, holding onto each other after Laura had nearly tripped on a bird that accidentally got in the way of her legs. He had one of Peter talking to Derek, his hands raised as if exasperated, Derek rolling his eyes. He hadn’t looked through them all yet, but Stiles knew there would be more that had turned out well. They were shots of the Hales themselves, not of HaleFire; personal, real. Stiles couldn’t help but feel like he needed to record _them_ —as a family, not just as the band.

“That should be good,” Stiles said, finally, and Peter sighed in relief.

“You so owe me a beer for this,” he heard Peter mutter to Cora, who smirked at him. They all untangled themselves from the position in front of the lake, Derek shaking his shoulders like a dog that had been laying down for two long.

“You love the attention, don’t lie,” Cora retorted, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She stalked over to Stiles. “Show me some of them, come on.” They all gathered around Stiles as he flicked through three of the most recent shots, all of the Hales posed with serious faces next to each other. Stiles could feel Derek right behind him, looking over his head, and he tried not to be nervous. Doing this was different than showing Derek his other photos, because this was Derek’s _family._ He needed Derek to like these photos.

“This is gonna be so cool,” Laura gushed to Stiles, her eyes sparkling. “We’re going to have a real cover and everything! Can you write HaleFire across it, Stiles?” She looked incredibly eager.

“Definitely,” Stiles assured her, and jumped when she hugged him tightly. She drew back, beaming, and then looked at the others with the same wide grin. Stiles cleared his throat. “I can probably have them done sometime next week,” he said, and Derek lay a hand on his shoulder. It was warm and strong, and Stiles unthinkingly leaned into it.

“You don’t need to rush it for us—” he began, and Cora made an indignant noise.

“Damn right he does! We’re his clients!”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Ignore her. I know you have other projects going on, I don’t want you overwhelmed.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles assured both of them. “I finished a lot of my projects yesterday. I only have some Senior Photos to edit, and then you guys. That will be easy.” In comparison to the latest huge shoots he had done with Maybelline, MoMA, and Ulta, the HaleFire project would be a breeze. He could always ask Erica for help if he needed to, anyways. At Derek’s doubting look, he rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. I’ll have them done.”

“Perfect,” Cora said, looking smugly at Derek, who sighed. Derek squeezed Stiles’ shoulder, gently, a silent _thank you_ passing between them. Stiles winked at him.

“I’m ready for a night on the town,” Peter declared, shrugging on a leather jacket (did that style just run in the male genes of the family, or something?) and checking his watch. Stiles glanced at his phone; it was already 6:00. “You guys coming?”

“Sure,” Laura said good-naturedly, and Cora nodded. They all turned to Derek and Stiles, expectant. Stiles felt panic well up inside him, unsure of what to do; but when Derek’s arm looped around his waist, pulling him so their sides were touching, he looked up at the older man instead.

“We’ll pass,” Derek said. “We’re making tonight a date night.”

_Date night._

Those words almost echoed in Stiles’ head as he felt a wave of happiness and embarrassment wash over him. Did casual flings have date nights? Only people in relationships had date _nights,_ right? If you weren’t dating then it would just be a _date,_ not a date _night._ Were he and Derek dating?Stiles suddenly had the urge to call Lydia and ask her if the distinction meant anything or if he was just near hysterics for no reason whatsoever.

“Party poopers,” Cora said, her voice warmed with play, and Derek scowled at her. She winked. “Oh, lighten up, little bro. We’ll see you sometime tomorrow then, yeah?” Derek nodded, his hand now on Stiles’ lower back, absent-mindedly running up and down his spine. Stiles was trying not to shiver from the contact, thinking how badly he wanted Derek to be touching _under_ the jacket, not on top of it.

“Thanks again for the photos,” Laura said, happily, and Stiles grinned.

“No problem. It was nice seeing you guys again.”

“You too,” Cora said, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, shit, I almost forgot to pay you.” She started to rifle through her purse, pulling out a checkbook. “How much?” she asked, but Stiles shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and felt Derek’s head snap sharply to look at him. Cora looked surprised.

“No, seriously, how much?” she said, but Stiles raised his eyebrows.

“No, seriously, don’t worry about it,” he replied, mocking her words with a smile, and she seemed perplexed.

“Stiles, let us pay you,” Derek insisted, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Oh my _god,_ you guys, it’s no big deal. This was fun, and it’s expanding my portfolio. We’re both benefiting.” It was absolutely true. He wouldn’t have done so if he hadn’t been with Derek, and he had never given away his skills for free before to anyone but Erica (not even to Scott, who had to buy him a pizza in order to get Homecoming photos with Kira during Freshman year of college); but he didn’t mind doing it for the Hales.

“Fine,” Cora said, and her lips tugged up into a smirk. “More drinks for us, then, Peter.” Peter laughed, giving her the thumbs up, while Laura thanked Stiles three times before he managed to get her to stop. Derek was quiet, his hands suddenly stuffed into his pockets. Stiles missed the warmth of the hand on his back; but it _was_ chilly, just a tad, so Derek’s hands were probably cold, he reasoned. The other Hales waved goodbye and began to cut back through the gardens in a way Stiles was _sure_ was illegal, but they didn’t seem to care. Happy to be starting his time with Derek, Stiles turned to him.

“Alright, where are we off to?” he asked, cheery and excited, but his face fell at Derek’s more impassive expression.

“Doesn’t matter,” Derek grunted, turning on his heel and starting to walk back down the path. Stiles frowned, his stomach sinking as he realized something was most definitely up.

“Hey, wait up!” he called after Derek, confused, and grabbed his tripod, slinging it over his shoulder as he ran to catch up with Derek’s steadily retreating back. “Hey, Derek, hold on.”

“I want to be on the streets before it gets dark,” Derek said, his voice void of emotion, and Stiles was even more confused. What the hell was going on? Just minutes before, Derek had been rubbing his back and proclaiming it to be a date night. Now, when Stiles let one of his hands fall to try and brush it against Derek’s, the older man stuffed his hands in his pockets again.

They walked in silence for a moment, panic pressing into the corners of Stiles’ mind, frustration and anxiety nearly exploding out of his skin. He was about to start chewing his nails down to the skin when Derek spoke.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” he said, and Stiles stopped. He was completely, totally baffled.

“Done _what?_ ” he demanded, confusion ringing in his voice, and Derek stopped too. The older man turned to face him, and suddenly he looked angry.

“Not let us pay for the photos,” he said, and Stiles gaped at him.

“Why not? I—”

Before he could continue, Derek was fuming. “I don’t know what kind of obligation you feel you have to us, but we don’t need it. We’re not rich, but we can easily pay for some photos. It’s not like we need pity because we’re a starting band, or anything like that—”

“Derek!” Stiles tried to interrupt, wide-eyed, but Derek ranted on.

“Pity presents don’t mean anything! Do you think that because I never went to college and that Laura and Cora are singers that we can’t provide for basic services? Peter had money, and I’ve saved up—”

“Derek,” Stiles said, firmly,

“I have plenty of ways to provide for myself—” he spat,

“ _Derek!_ ” Stiles practically shouted, and he strode forwards and grabbed Derek’s arms. He knew that if he and Derek actually were to struggle, Derek would win. But he held on tightly to his arms anyways, and focused his gaze on Derek’s eyes. Derek was looking at him, clearly taken aback and distressed. “Derek,” Stiles said, and his voice was softer, “calm down and listen to me.”

“What?” Derek said, dumbly, and Stiles squeezed his wrists in an attempt to get Derek to focus on him.

“You’re assuming a ton of stuff, man,” Stiles said, trying to make the truth behind his words get through. “Listen: I didn’t give the free shoot to you guys because of pity, or any shit like that.” Derek was paying attention now, his eyes searching Stiles’ face. Stiles continued on. “I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for the fact that they’re your family and you were there; but even then, it wasn’t because I thought you couldn’t provide it or pay me. I _knew_ you could pay me. I just had a lot of fun, and I liked photographing you, and it honestly _will_ enhance my portfolio. I wasn’t lying about why I did it, and I also wasn’t lying when I said it honestly wasn’t a big deal.”

Derek was staring at him, seeming as dumbstruck as Stiles had felt just moments before. “I—” he stuttered, and Stiles was caught off-guard by the vulnerability in his voice, “I—I guess I just thought—when my parents died, people were really—we got a lot of free things, because they thought we were weak—” He was struggling for words.

Stiles placed a hand on Derek’s neck, stroking the tan skin with his thumb. “I don’t think you’re weak,” he told Derek. “I think you’re amazing, and _that’s_ why I didn’t want you to pay a single cent.” Derek had that look in his eyes again, the one that Stiles couldn’t quite place, but that sent his heart ricocheting in his chest and his stomach doing pleasant flips. “I would never judge you for not going to college, or for having a start-up band. That stuff is super cool. You’re doing way more than I am; I mean, look at me, man. I’m a freelancer who is barely getting by and I never set a single foot in college. I still share an apartment with my best friend from _high school,_ and last week we spent five hours trying to scrub pizza sauce off the ceiling.”

Derek was relaxing slightly against his hands. “I…” he whispered, and Stiles could see Derek beginning to understand just how much he had misunderstood. Stiles made a mental note that Derek had a short fuse, that he wasn’t good with expressing what he felt at first. “Stiles… I didn’t mean to…”

Stiles nodded, understanding. “I did it because I wanted to. You and I don’t owe each other anything, not really. That’s not saying that I wouldn’t do a hell of a lot for you, Derek—because—because I would. And it’s true that I do expect some things from you, yeah, but it’s not anything that can be measured in money or favors. I just want you here, with me; and doing the shoot today gave me that. Plus I thought it was silly to, well…” He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

“What?” Derek asked, his voice gruff, and Stiles suddenly couldn’t look at him.

“Well you said date night,” he mumbled, looking at the dirt path, “and I thought maybe—it could possible mean that we were, I don’t know, going to be dating, or exclusive, or whatever. And so I thought that if you were my boyfriend, I wouldn’t want you to have to pay for anything. Because money isn’t what a relationship should be about.” He could feel his face heating up with each word. It was so stupid. Silence greeted his words, and he glanced up, petrified.

Derek was looking at him, rawness in his gaze. “I,” the older man stated, “feel like an idiot.”

Stiles backtracked. “No, no, I didn’t mean that—”

“I know you didn’t,” Derek interrupted, and Stiles could have pumped the air with his fist in victory when Derek’s hand found his hip, “but I am a complete, total idiot. My god, I can’t believe I just got this upset at you over _that._ ”

“It’s ok, we all have to freak out at some point,” Stiles mumbled, his other hand sneaking up around Derek’s neck, and Derek leaned down and kissed him. It was at this point that Stiles began to calm down, the warmth of Derek’s lips reassuring him that things were going to be fine. Still, though, a small knot of worry remained. He broke apart from Derek, searching his eyes. “Are we ok?” he asked, and Derek nodded emphatically.

“I am so sorry,” he said, and kissed Stiles again. “Yes, yes—we are more than ok.” His hand began rubbing up and down Stiles’ back again, and he could feel Derek leaning into the pressure that Stiles’ thumb was placing on his neck. “I’m sorry, you didn’t know that I could turn into a complete asshole in the span of five seconds,” Derek said, his voice laced with guilt, but Stiles shook his head.

“My mom… when she died, people did the same thing to my family. The pity drove me insane. I get it, Derek, I really do. I’m not angry. I just—this isn’t what I imagined our first argument to be about, you know? So it just took me off guard. But I get it.” Derek was shaking his head, seeming overwhelmed by his words, but Stiles continued on. “I just want to make sure you know why I did it. You… you mean a lot to me, Derek; I don’t want this to come between us, or anything.”

Derek nodded. “No, I understand, and it won’t. I—I guess I was just afraid, because you…” He was struggling for words again. “You have been so good for me, Stiles. I know it’s only been a few weeks, and I’m not trying to be fast or push you, but I do care about you, a lot. I—I think about you all the time. I have problems… sharing how I feel, a lot of the time. But with you, it just… it’s easier, somehow. And I was afraid of that—of that falling apart.” The words were halted, but it was the most honest, open thing Stiles had ever heard from Derek. He rarely talked this much.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles said, firmly. The hand on his hip squeezed, gently, Derek offering motions for what he couldn’t say. He understood. It had been a moment of emotion, of assumption and self-doubt and fear. Stiles closed his eyes when Derek touched their foreheads together, the mere action sending comfort rushing through his veins. They stood there for a moment, taking in the presence of each other, before Derek broke the silence once more.

“You asked,” he said, slowly, “if we were dating.” Stiles’ eyes snapped open and he began to chuckle nervously, taking a step back and running his hands through his hair.

“Yeah, I mean, I was wondering, but I know it’s super soon to ask, and I’m not trying to make you commit to anything—” he began to blabber, but Derek clapped a hand over his mouth. Stiles had to resist the urge to lick it; not the time.

“Do you—would you still want that, after what just happened?” Derek asked him, and Stiles would have gaped incredulously at him if his mouth hadn’t been covered. Instead, he nodded enthusiastically, pulling Derek’s hand away.

“Are you kidding?” he demanded. “For a first fight, that wasn’t bad at all. I can totally handle that. I can handle _way_ more than that, if it means I would get to date you. I want to date you.” The last statement seemed to burst out of him against his will, his heart overcoming his brain. The words held no doubt, no hesitance.

They were quiet again for a moment. “I can’t believe you,” Derek said, suddenly, and Stiles jumped slightly. “How—how am I this lucky?” Derek grabbed his face, tilting it up and pressing three stray kisses on the corners of Stiles’ mouth. “I,” he whispered, and kissed him deeply, “really, _really_ want that idea to become a reality. I want to date you, just you.”

Stiles felt breathless. “Yeah?” he asked, and Derek nodded, licking his lips nervously. Stiles pulled him down gently, encasing his lips with a tender kiss.

“Yeah,” Derek whispered back, and Stiles smiled against his mouth. He didn’t know how long they stood there, enjoying the feeling of each other’s warmth, of their tongues and mouths pressing together, but it was long enough for a chill to start settling over the park. Stiles shivered, goosebumps running up his arms, and Derek moved so he could rub his hands up and down them. “Cold?” he asked, gently, and Stiles shrugged.

“I don’t mind,” he said, and then shifted the camera that was on his shoulder. “But I’ll admit: my back hurts. Camera equipment isn’t light stuff.” He realized that he had set his tripod in the road, too distracted by Derek’s earlier anger to care much about it at the time.

“Let me help,” Derek insisted, and soon they were walking back towards the road on the outskirts of the park, the tripod slung under Derek’s well-muscled arm. The mood had done a complete 180, both of them high off of the fact that they were finally going to enjoy their night. Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about how he and Derek were now dating, _officially,_ exclusively. They grabbed a cab, Stiles laughing at the pigeons that were flying uselessly around ( _sky rats,_ Derek called them, wrinkling his nose), and when the cabbie asked them where they wanted to go, neither one knew.

“Want to drop off your camera stuff?” Derek asked, and Stiles thought back to the state of his apartment. Internally, he winced. But his back was killing him, and he didn’t want Derek to be lugging around the tripod all night. Plus, Derek was going to ask to see it at some point anyways, if this was going to be something official. So, biting the bullet, he nodded. After he gave the driver his address, he shot a text to Scott.

**Coming back quick to drop off gear. Speed clean plz?**

Scott replied immediately. **I have ur back, bro.** Another text followed seconds later. **Ur room, 2?**

Stiles decided to spare him that fate. **No,** he replied, but was suddenly distracted from elaborating by feeling Derek’s hand on his leg. “Can I see a few more of the photos?” Derek asked, and Stiles obliged. They spent the rest of the quick ride flicking through photos, Stiles carefully avoiding any of the ones he had secretly taken of the family out of pose.

“What’s your favorite?” he asked, and Derek paused to think.

“I like all of them,” he admitted, and Stiles laughed.

“That’s a terrible response!”

“Well I want to see them edited,” Derek argued, and Stiles laughed again.

“I don’t need to edit them much,” he said, warmly. “You guys are all really photogenic.” Stiles gently bumped their shoulders together. “You’re my favorite, though.” He grinned when Derek flushed slightly.

“Yeah, well,” Derek mumbled as the cab came to a slow stop outside of Stiles’ apartment, “you might be my favorite, too.”

Practically glowing as they stepped out of the cab, Stiles paid the driver and turned to face Derek. The joy from moments earlier was replaced by an acute sense of nervousness, which he could feel trickling down his spine and into his legs. Derek was examining the building, his eyes flicking up and down as he took in the bright blue paint and barred-over windows.

“So, uh, this is it,” Stiles said, his voice slightly higher than normal. “It’s not much, but, well—it’s home, I suppose. Home away from home, if you will. Second home. Like second breakfast, only not edible.” When the last line left his blabbering mouth, he wanted to hit his head against the sidewalk. _Ohmygod Stiles you are so humiliating why can’t you just keep your mouth shut you don’t need to talk so much—_

But Derek had turned to him with a grin. “You like Lord of the Rings?”

Stiles recovered quickly from his shock. “Duh! Of course! They’re only, like, some of the best books ever, even if the movies didn’t do them justice.” Derek laughed at this, and pulled Stiles in for another quick kiss. Stiles wanted more, but Derek wouldn’t let him continue.

“Come on, let me see your place,” he said, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“God, Sourwolf, why do you always need to rush things?” Derek scowled at the nickname, but Stiles just grinned snarkily and searched in his pockets for his keys. “Alright, alright, keep your pants on.” He paused, then looked Derek up and down. “Actually, the pants _could_ come off—”

Derek playfully lunged at him, and it was with a very _manly_ shriek that Stiles attempted to escape by opening the door. They nearly tumbled through onto the landing, catching themselves at the last second. As Derek righted himself, Stiles couldn’t help but giggle violently. He looked so ruffled that it was hard not to find it comical. An old woman, who was standing by the elevator as she waited for it to come down, looked at them in alarm. Attempting to stifle his laughter, Stiles grabbed Derek’s hand and pulled him over to the stairs.

“This will be quicker, trust me,” he said, and Derek raised his eyebrows. “That thing is creepy as hell, and slower than a turtle. I’m pretty sure that elevator comes right out of the script of _The Shining._ ” Derek laughed, and Stiles glowed. God, he loved making Derek laugh. They were still holding hands, Stiles realized, but Derek didn’t seem to mind as they climbed up to the eighth floor. It was a testament to the fitness of both men that they weren’t out of breath when they finally reached the room that Stiles and Scott shared.

As he slid the key into the lock, Stiles hesitated. “It, um, might be—kind of messy?” he said, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“I was a teenage boy, too, Stiles,” he said.

“You underestimate the abilities of Scott and I to make a mess,” Stiles warned, but when Derek gave him a look, he sighed and opened the door. What he was greeted with was completely, totally unexpected. “Holy shit,” he said, eyes going wide as he took in the scene. Everything was clean. Like, _everything._ Stiles had never seen the carpet this uncluttered before. The table that they had near the entrance was dusted and smelled slightly like lemon wood oil, which Stiles didn’t think he or Scott even possessed (let alone knew how to use).

Derek had moved past him, looking left and right as he took in the hallway. “This is nice,” he said, and Stiles snapped back to reality and quickly followed Derek down the hall. He was rather disturbed, actually, because he didn’t think the apartment had been this clean since they had bought it six months ago.

The layout of the apartment was basic, with a hallway that led to the small kitchen and slightly larger living room containing a tattered red couch, a TV, and a coffee table, which was missing a leg and instead had been propped up with a pile of Scott’s schoolbooks from last semester. But the carpet had been vacuumed, and the coffee table was clear. The various wrappers that had been strewn about were gone, and a fresh, citrus scent lingered in the air. As Stiles ran a finger over the top of the TV, he realized it had been _dusted._ They never _dusted._ It was enough to nearly give Stiles a heart attack.

“This isn’t dirty,” Derek said, turning to Stiles as he took in the sight. “You were definitely exaggerating.”

“Uh,” Stiles said, dumbly, “uh, I guess—the appliances are a bit old?” He didn’t know what to say. The sound of Scott’s room door opening made them turn their heads. He came down the hallway branching off the living room, and when Stiles saw Kira he suddenly understood the situation completely.

“Derek! Hey, man,” Scott said, and Derek shook his hand. Kira was smiling. _Oh my god, you angel,_ Stiles mouthed to her, behind Derek’s back, and she winked. “Stiles, bro: Kira and I were about to head out and get something to eat. You guys want us to bring anything back?” He was giving Stiles a knowing look.

“Nah, we’ll be heading out soon, too,” Stiles told them, and Scott nodded.

“I’m going to grab my jacket,” Kira told them, and Scott took that moment to start blabbering to Derek about the latest football game that had been on. Kira scooted over to Stiles, who was standing by where her coat was slung over the chair, and hugged him.

“Everything should be clean,” she whispered to him, and Stiles could have cried with joy. “I made sure to get the bathroom, too.”

“I love you and I owe you for at least the next century,” he gushed in a hushed voice, and she grinned. She grabbed her jacket off the chair and took hold of Scott’s arm.

“Come on, Scott, let’s give the boys space so they can get on their way,” she said, and Scott got that goofy look he always did when he was talking to Kira. Completely, totally, a love-struck puppy. As they left, Derek turned to Stiles.

“Where is your room?” he asked, and Stiles gulped. Oh, this was going to be shameful.

“This way,” Stiles said, and Derek followed him down the hallway off the living room. They passed by Scott’s door, which was covered with various sports teams and college memorabilia, and Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle at the curious look on Derek’s face. “He _really_ loves sports.”

“Looks like it,” Derek said, and stopped in front of Stiles’ door. It was plain, with nothing decorating it; just the white-painted wood and metal door handle. To Stiles, though, it felt like he was staring at a grenade. He glanced over at Derek, who seemed expectant. “Well?” he prodded, and Stiles ran a hand through his hair. He opened the door.

 _Oh, thank all things holy,_ he thought to himself. Someone –Scott or Kira, he didn’t know which—had moved his wrinkled clothes off of the floor and into the laundry basket (which Ms. McCall had forced him to take when he left Beacon Hills, despite Stiles’ insistence that he would _never_ use it; he suddenly appreciated it now). His bed wasn’t perfectly made, but it wasn’t the mess he had left it this morning either. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his desk, because Stiles was relatively obsessive about keeping it clean in the first place. He did everything at his desk, and he needed open space in order to edit his photos in the right mindset. The only things he ever had on the wooden surface were some pens and pencils, his laptop, and an old baseball that he and his father used to throw around when he was in high school. The rest of his possessions were packed into the drawers of his nightstand, or shoved into his closet. It was very similar to his room back in Beacon Hills, with the same decorations on the walls, the same bedspread; and truthfully, Stiles had purposefully done that. He had been so close to his family and friends in Beacon Hills that having something akin to his old bedroom made him feel more secure.

Stiles was watching Derek with nerves pooling in his stomach, trying to gauge his reaction. Derek was gazing around, silent, his eyes wandering over a few of the photos on Stiles’ nightstand to the posters on the wall. Having Derek in his room made Stiles feel both nervous and excited, and he tried not to think about all the fantasies he had of Derek doing things to him here. Lately, he had been jerking off to the idea of Derek swallowing him, on his knees as Stiles sat on the edge of the bed, Derek’s long, tan neck tilted up just slightly and his forest eyes closed in pleasure.

“I like it,” Derek said, finally, jerking Stiles out of his fantasy. He could feel that he was half-hard, and he quickly turned to the desk so he wouldn’t be facing Derek.

“Yeah?” he asked, carefully placing his Nikon on the desk.

“It’s just… you,” Derek said, and Stiles laughed when he added, “But a lot cleaner than I was expecting, I’ll admit.”

“It doesn’t normally look like this,” Stiles assured him, turning back around and leaning against his desk so he could look at Derek. “I’m not nearly as clean as you are.” He realized that Derek was still holding the tripod, and he nearly yelped in surprise. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Here, just throw that on the bed. Um, feel free to sit down? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good,” Derek said, and he settled on the edge of Stiles’ bed. Seeing him there, where Stiles slept and jerked off to the thought of him, made Stiles feel like there was a heavy lump in his throat. He swallowed, and quickly turned around.

“Cool. Let me just throw on a different shirt: this one got all dirty from the shoot. Then we can take off,” he said, as casually as he could, not wanting to reveal the thrums of longing and arousal that were coursing through him. He opened one of his drawers and started to pull his shirt over his head, talking as he did so. “How does pizza sound?” Things went dark for a moment as he pulled the shirt off, and he didn’t hear a reply. Maybe he had missed it. “Derek?” he asked, and turned around.

Derek was sitting on his bed, eyes appreciative as he gazed at Stiles’ bare chest. There was a hunger in his eyes, a kind of intense want that made Stiles feel like the air in the room had just decreased significantly. He turned, just slightly, and felt a wave of self-confidence flow through him as Derek looked him up and down. Stiles’ eyes flicked down, and his heart picked up speed as he saw the bulge in Derek’s jeans.

Derek stood up, crossing the room in a few long strides. His fingers found Stiles’ waist, one hand curving around the button of Stiles’ jeans. “You can’t just do that,” he said, his voice a deep growl from arousal, “without expecting me to want to touch you.” The feeling of his hands on Stiles’ bare skin made Stiles want to moan. It had been nearly a week since he and Derek had slept together, and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how wonderful the callouses on Derek’s fingers had felt against his body.

“I—” Stiles said, flushing, and instead of continuing his sentence (which, he knew, would have been incoherent), he kissed Derek. It was intense from the start, open-mouthed and greedy, their bodies fitting together easily as Derek pressed him against the dresser as the open drawer was pushed shut. Stiles clung to him, his fingers digging into the fabric of Derek’s shirt as the older man rolled their hips together, sloppy in his need. “Oh my god,” Stiles moaned, tilting his head back so Derek could press kisses against his neck. He was steadily getting harder.

“You’re so hot,” Derek whispered against his skin, and his hand slipped down to squeeze Stiles’ ass. His mouth wandered down to Stiles’ nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin. Stiles nearly whimpered, but retaliated but pulling Derek’s face up and kissing him again. There was something filthy and erotic about the way Stiles sucked on Derek’s lip, and he managed to get a growl of pleasure from Derek.

“Want to change your pants, too?” Derek murmured, and Stiles pressed against the hand that was suddenly rubbing him lightly.

“You’d like that,” Stiles gasped to him, trying to smirk, and Derek kissed him again. As he did so, his fingers undid the button on Stiles’ jeans. The sound of his zipper being released made Stiles keen slightly. His heart stuttered when, in a smooth motion, Derek was suddenly kneeling in front of him. His breath was hot against Stiles’ boxers, his finger slowly tugging Stiles’ jeans off his hips, exposing the thin fabric underneath.

“Stop,” Stiles gasped, feeling Derek’s hands tracing his thighs. He felt as if he was about to lose it. “You’re—I—if you make me come in my pants like a high school boy, I’ll never forgive you.” Derek couldn’t help but laugh, his hands stilling but his eyes raking up and down Stiles’ bare chest.

“How long do we have until Scott and Kira get back?” he asked, his mouth against Stiles’ boxers, and Stiles had to resist grinding against Derek’s warm weight pressing against his cock. Stiles tried to think, his mind much more interested in the various ways he could get Derek’s shirt off. Derek trailed his mouth up to Stiles face, one hand still gently rubbing his erection.

“Thirty minutes?” he said, his voice shooting an octave higher as Derek gently tugged on his bottom lip. Derek grinned, and Stiles mentally cursed how obvious he was. But his dick was throbbing. “Do you—can we—my bed?” he managed to get out, and Derek didn’t need any more prompting. Stiles yelped in surprise when Derek grabbed his ass, shifting him up. He was suddenly grateful that he had great leg strength, because Derek moaned when Stiles legs lifted up and hooked around his waist, their kisses sloppy and needy.

They fell onto the bed, Stiles scrambling impatiently at Derek’s shirt until the older man laughed and tugged it off. It fell to the covers, forgotten, and Stiles ran his hands over Derek’s tan skin. Derek shivered under his fingers, closing his eyes briefly. He had hair, just a small amount leading down to his groin, and Stiles managed to flip them over so he could trail his lips down it. He didn’t get how he had scored someone so wonderful.

“We have to make it quick,” he said, dizzy with want, and Derek nodded as he yanked on Stiles’ jeans.

“Who’s the sourwolf, now?” Derek said, sounding breathless, and Stiles scowled at him. But Derek just grinned, and Stiles kissed him. Gently, with a slowness that told Stiles he could stop him if he wanted to, he slid his fingers underneath Stiles’ briefs and pulled down, down, down. Stiles was once again overcome with a paralyzing fear, the fear that Derek would see him and not want him anymore. It wasn’t as if he was small—he actually considered himself decent, and he never had problems with what he looked like before. But next to Derek, whose god-like body could score anyone he wanted, Stiles was filled with self-doubt.

But, just like the first time, Derek looked at him appreciatively, his tongue unconsciously wetting his lips. He barely seemed to notice Stiles reciprocating the gesture, hands trembling slightly as he unzipped his jeans. His hands slipped onto Stiles’ sides, his pupils seeming to grow by the second as their bare skin started to press together. Stiles tried not to whimper in pleasure from the way Derek’s calloused fingers were rubbing over the ticklish, sensitive skin covering his ribs.

They were naked, now, laid out bare for each other, their chests moving in rhythm as enchanted, entranced eyes raked over the other. Derek was well-defined, his muscles seeming to burst out of him, and Stiles couldn’t help but think about how firm they were under his grip. It was as if he was made of steel. Stiles was lean and lanky, paler; but he was fit, and there was something wonderfully symmetrical about him, something that made Derek want to get lost in his skin and his moles and his breathing.

He leaned forward, his mouth tracing the small spots on Stiles skin, and smoothly flipped them so that they were laying on their sides, facing each other. Stiles closed his eyes, letting out a quiet moan as Derek moved up to his neck. Stiles wanted to touch him, to be touched—it was as if their skin pressing together just wasn’t enough. He needed _more._

Derek groaned in happy surprise when Stiles reached for him, his fingers curling around Derek’s cock and starting to lazily stroke it. They were both already a bit wet, and it was easily to move his fingers against Derek’s head, slick as it was with pre-come. It was satisfying to see Derek’s muscles tense under his hand, to feel his bites getting a bit more desperate as Stiles stroked him faster. The tightness in Stiles’ own cock was nearly painful, and he longed for friction. His wish was almost granted moments later, one of Derek’s hands shifting from his ass and moving to stoke his balls. He groaned, quietly, trying to focus on keeping his rhythm against Derek’s cock while moving his own hips back in an attempt to get Derek to stroke him back. But Derek didn’t move his hand, instead teasing Stiles by pressing his thumb against the inside of his thigh.

“Lay on your back,” Derek said to him, and he pressed against Stiles’ side with his hand until, with a frustrated grunt, Stiles did as he said. He couldn’t touch Derek like this, and his hands fell to his sides and fisted in the sheets. His dick was erect, red, and Stiles desperately wanted Derek to touch him. _Now._ Instead, Derek hovered over him, and his hands found Stiles’ inner thighs again. He began pressing against the skin there with his fingers in a rhythm, one that vaguely reminded Stiles of thrusting motions that he had once seen in a porn video, and a wave of longing went through him. He didn’t think the pressure in him could increase, but it just had.

“You’re infuriating—” Stiles began, and then arched into Derek’s fingers with a gasp as they curled around his cock.

“Not anymore,” Derek said, a smugness in his voice, and Stiles glared at him. But Derek was increasing his speed, and he couldn’t talk. He closed his eyes and rocked into Derek’s hand, his previous protests forgotten as pleasure shot through him. This was amazing, this was perfect—

“It’s ok to be loud,” Derek said, and Stiles only then realized he had been holding back his moaning. The pleasure was intense, so intense that he wanted to keen, but he couldn’t. He felt dirty doing it, for some reason, even though he knew Derek had told him it was ok. He still had problems believing it, believing that anyone could find that hot. He was too feminine, too sloppy, it would be embarrassing—

He gave a surprised yelp of pleasure when Derek started pumping him, his hand moving up and down with a speed that Stiles knew would have him coming within thirty seconds. “Derek,” he gasped, scrambling to try and reciprocate, and Derek tilted his hips forward so that their cocks were pressed together. Stiles managed to sit up, practically in Derek’s lap as he started to stroke back. Derek tilted his head back and moaned, his pace slowing slightly as he bucked his hips against Stiles’ hand. Something about Derek moaning made Stiles nearly come, the sound of his pleasure increasing his own tenfold.

“Come _on,_ Stiles,” Derek grunted to him, and one of his hands snuck around Stiles’ back and squeeze his ass, firmly. “Let me _hear_ you.”

Stiles was gasping, sweat trickling down his spine. “I—I can’t!” he said, breathless, but Derek shook his head. He dipped his head down, pressing Stiles back down into the sheets so his mouth could suck on his nipples. He was still stroking Stiles, the pace a steady wave that had Stiles shivering, but not enough to push him over the edge.

“I don’t care what some stupid fling told you,” he growled, kissing him firmly. “You moaning is _hot._ Do you—” he stuttered, sucked in a breath as Stiles bucked his hips against Derek’s, pressing their cocks together, “—do you realize how sexy it is? It’s—sometimes, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not with you, all I can think about is you moaning underneath me, letting me know how good it is.”

Stiles’ mind was bouncing around in about ten different directions, this information sending self-satisfaction coursing through him even while he felt embarrassment heating up his ears. He closed his eyes again as Derek kissed him, filthy and open-mouthed, greedy and everything Stiles wanted. Derek was grinding their hips together, now, and the wet sound of sex that was filling the room was driving Stiles crazy.

“I’ll make it so good for you if you moan,” Derek whispered against his mouth. He lovingly spread Stiles’ legs, his other hand coming down and cupping his balls once more; and Stiles couldn’t hold it in any longer. He moaned. Derek practically growled in pleasure, his hand finding Stiles’ cock again and stroking it, hard and fast. Stiles opened his eyes, scrambling for something to grab, because this was _amazing—_ more than amazing, mind-blowing, the best.

“Oh—oh—” he gasped, and Derek grunted in encouragement.

“That’s right, baby, let me know,” he said, his voice rough and hoarse, and _god_ that made Stiles want him even more. The pet name, the knowledge that he was making Derek _crave_ him—it was almost too much to handle. Stiles was crying out now, little _aah_ sounds that seemed to be yanked from his throat as Derek’s hand pumped him, slick with pre-come and with a heady friction that had Stiles squirming. Stiles wanted to arch into him and press back at the same time, torn between which hand was making him feel better. He decided to thrust up, gasping as the pleasure shot through him.

“Derek,” he groaned, and Derek moaned above him. His dick was on Stiles stomach, and Stiles managed to unfist a hand from the sheets and wrap it around him. Derek’s muscles tensed, his hips snapping into Stiles’ hand as they found a matching rhythm. They were both moaning now: Derek’s low and guttural, Stiles’ an octave higher and breathy, needy.

“Good?” Derek asked, and Stiles nodded frantically.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he repeated, barely able to think. He cried out again as Derek fit himself between his legs, the additional stretch of his thighs making everything feel more sensitive. Their cocks were pressed together, now, and they were stroking each other and themselves: Stiles’ hands around himself and Derek, and Derek’s around Stiles, the speed increasing. He felt himself approaching the edge, and tried to warn Derek. He gave a little gasp, attempting to find words to speak. But Derek leaned forward and kissed him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, and the pet name was what sent Stiles over. He came with a cry, his entire body shuddering through it as Derek continued to pump him, following soon after with a groan.

They stayed there for a moment, panting, come covering their fingers and the sheets. Stiles had his arm over his eyes, his chest heaving up and down. He couldn’t remember better sex, even though they hadn’t actually done much. There shouldn’t have been anything special about what had just happened; yet it was exceptional, because Derek had guided him through it, made him let go. Without having to focus on being quiet, he had managed to put all of his attention into what Derek was doing.

When he opened his eyes, Derek was looking at him. Stiles felt a lump grow in his throat at the softness in Derek’s eyes. It was something that he hadn’t seen much of—that raw, unfiltered emotion. He had glimpsed it earlier, when Derek had been mad, but this was different. It was easier to be mad than to let hurt or affection shine through, and seeing Derek look at him with such tenderness made his heart beat faster.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek told him, simply, and pecked him on the lips. Stiles couldn’t help the goofy grin that spread across his face at that, and he covered his eyes with his arm again as he blushed furiously. He felt like he was floating on the clouds from Derek’s praise.

“You’re ridiculous,” he responded, affectionate to the point of dizziness, and Derek huffed.

“Only with you.” He glanced around them, looking at the mess and asking, “We should clean up, yeah?” as if what he had just said was no big deal. But Stiles’ brain was replaying the words over and over again, practically shrieking with joy. _Only with you, only with you, only with you._

“Yeah,” he managed to reply, sitting up. “Shower’s open.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I can’t believe you’re getting fruit loops,” Derek said, watching Stiles with slight disapproval as the younger man piled the rainbow rings into his bright yellow bowl. Stiles turned to him and stuck out his tongue.

“It’s not my fault that you like boring cereal.” He motioned to Derek’s bowl. “Seriously, who gets Raisin Bran and then adds strawberries? We’re at a _cereal bar,_ for God’s sake! You could be piling that up with sugar-filled goodness! Branch out.” Derek rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, glancing around the bright interior of the café. Spotting a few chairs near the long counter that was pressed against the window, he ignored Stiles’ protests and started walking away. With a playful huff, Stiles followed.

“You don’t need any more sugar,” Derek told him, his voice bordering on playful, and Stiles bumped their shoulders together as they sat down. “You already had, like, five sugar-filled coffees today.”

“I had _two,_ ” Stiles corrected him, “and you _liked_ it.” This made Derek blush slightly, but Stiles just grinned. He had ordered whipped cream on his coffee, and the look on Derek’s face as he licked the sides of the cup had been priceless.

“I regret _ever_ telling you that,” Derek said, firmly, and Stiles laughed.

He had been laughing a lot, lately, more so than ever before. It had been two and a half months since he had met Derek at the airport, and he couldn’t remember being happier. Between plenty of dates and even more text messages, Stiles was getting to know Derek in a way that he felt others didn’t. It wasn’t even all words. Stiles was beginning to learn what each one of Derek’s movements meant, what a particular angle of his eyebrows expressed. He knew that Derek rubbed his wrists when he was nervous, clenched his hands when he was mad. He loved the way Derek had begun leaning into his touches, something that Stiles had been reciprocating since the very beginning of their relationship. Even though Stiles was usually the one talking, he didn’t mind.

Of course, there were things that they didn’t talk about. Stiles still hadn’t asked about how Derek’s family had died, nor had Stiles shared what happened four years ago. When he was with Derek, he felt like he could forget about the past, forget that he was just nineteen years old with no real experience in the world. He could forget he was scared shitless of the future and the past. When he was with Derek, nothing else mattered but the pleasant tightness in his chest and the way Derek’s warm fingers splayed across his back. There were so many details to memorize, twenty-five years’ worth of details, and Stiles wasn’t one to waste time catching up on things he cared about. Derek was one of those things.

And he was a fast learner. Particularly when it came to their nightly (and sometimes mid-morning) exploits. He learned that Derek _really_ liked having Stiles go down on him, that sex was one of the few times that Derek would let go entirely and let Stiles know exactly what he wanted. They hadn’t had full-on sex—not _yet,_ Stiles told himself, because he was determined to have it happen. He had tried a few times to escalate things, but Derek had always changed the pace back down to just blow-jobs or rimming or finger penetration. And Stiles loved all those things, really he did, but he wanted _more._ Maybe he was being greedy, but he wanted all of Derek. He wanted Derek panting above him, thrusting into him, letting out grunts of need and want as he filled Stiles. He wanted that rawness, that vulnerability—for both of them.

“Earth to Stiles,” Derek said, and Stiles jumped and banged his knee on the counter. Derek cracked up as Stiles whined, rubbing his knee.

“You’re a terrible boyfriend, taking pleasure in my pain,” Stiles told Derek, who was trying to contain himself, and Derek instantly scowled. His dark eyebrows furrowed.

“I give you pleasure in other ways,” he said, and Stiles felt a slight flush light his cheeks.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, and took a big bite of cereal. “What were you saying?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Derek scolded, and Stiles rolled his eyes pointedly. “I was asking if you still want to come to my performance tonight for the Association of Classical Music.”

“Of course!” Stiles exclaimed, mouth still full, and Derek gave him a disgusted look. He swallowed loudly. “You’ve asked me, like, five times.”

“I don’t want to make you do anything boring.” There was a hesitance in Derek’s voice, as if he honestly thought Stiles might say no. It was something that snuck through occasionally, whenever Derek would invite Stiles to something he was doing. The guy didn’t give himself enough credit. He remembered how humble Derek had been when he told Stiles he got into the association, saying it was all luck and yadda yadda yadda. But Stiles had been so proud, seeming more pleased about the situation that Derek himself had. Stiles didn’t know where Derek had learned to be so self-depreciating, but he didn’t like it.

He reached out, grabbing Derek’s hands and running his thumb over his wrists. Derek’s shoulders seemed to relax. “First, I couldn’t find anything you do boring,” Stiles told him honestly, and Derek looked flattered. “Second, how do you know I’m not a huge classical music buff?”

At this, Derek snorted. “I’ve seen your iPod, Stiles.”

Stiles groaned. “Can we pretend that didn’t happen?” he winced, and Derek shook his head with a grin. “I wasn’t on my best game. Actually, neither were you.”

“What?” Derek demanded, eyebrows furrowing again. “I was _fine._ You were the one jumping out of your seat.”

Stiles pointed an accusatory finger at him, leaning back in his seat slightly. “ _You_ had to pull that high-and-mighty act, like you were _so_ much more dignified than I was.”

“Because I _was,_ ” Derek retorted, and Stiles glared at him. Derek took a bite of cereal, swallowed, and added, “You weren’t the calmest seat partner, that’s for sure.” At Stiles’ indignant look, he hastily added, “It was endearing, once I had the music playing. But I’ve never seen someone so nervous.” There was a small pause where Stiles shoved some fruit loops into his mouth, not wanting to reply. His stomach was starting to knot uncomfortably. Derek’s voice was careful when he spoke the next words. “Why… why exactly do you hate flying so much anyways?”

Stiles ate another spoonful of cereal, heart beating fast. He really didn’t want to talk about this, not now. Part of him thought _not ever,_ but he knew that was unrealistic. He knew that Derek was aware he had baggage, but he thought Derek may have underestimated just how much. And Stiles really didn’t want to reveal that now, not when Derek could still change his mind and leave Stiles all alone again. It was a selfish thought.

“Um—” he began, and he was saved the drama of attempting to reply when one of his flailing hands hit Derek’s cereal bowl on accident, spilling the entire thing onto his lap. There was a clatter as the bowl fell to the floor and Stiles jumped out of his seat, swearing, and Derek’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, shit, Derek, I am _so_ sorry!” he said, looking around frantically for a towel of something as he shoved his napkin at Derek. “Oh my god, I’ll go get some paper towels—”

But Derek started laughing.

Stiles stopped mid-flail, turning to him in shock. But Derek had stood up, brushing soggy Raisin Bran off his now-stained jeans, his shoulders shaking with laughter. A few tables were looking over at them, clearly confused about the commotion, and a frenzied waitress was wiping up the milk that had spilled on the counter. But Derek didn’t seem to care at all. He stepped forward and grabbed Stiles’ arm, leaning down and kissing him firmly. Stiles kissed back instinctively, so used to the feeling of Derek’s mouth on his that he didn’t even have to think. When Derek pulled back, Stiles felt dazed.

“You’re adorable,” Derek told him, his voice warm, and Stiles’ entire face heated up.

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing,” he said, humiliated. “I just attacked my boyfriend with a dairy product. In _public._ And then he called me _adorable._ ”

Derek laughed again. “They’re just pants, I can wash them,” he said, and Stiles shook his head and covered his face with his hands. Derek laughed, pried his hands away from his face, and pecked him on the lips. Stiles tried to smile as they paid the bill. He was shaking, and he knew it wasn’t because he had spilled the cereal all over Derek (although, he knew, it wasn’t his best move—but he had never claimed to be graceful in any endeavor). No, he was shaking because he didn’t know how long he could hide all this shit from Derek: his mom and Allison, and planes, and the four years of semi-recovery he had been undergoing. He didn’t know what Derek would do when he found out, and that scared him more than anything so far.

Because he knew that losing Derek would seriously ruin his life.

* * *

 

Stiles pulled on his dress jacket nervously, staring at himself in the mirror. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at his tie. He tugged it off and threw it back onto the counter.

“Oh my god, Stiles, you’ve tied that thing at least four times,” Scott said, exasperated, as he walked into the bathroom with a bottle of cologne he had gotten for Christmas last year. Kira smiled at him from where she was sitting on the counter, her bare feet hitting against the wood cabinet as she swung her feet happily back and forth. She had been attempting to help Stiles get ready for the Association of Classical Music performance for the past hour.

“I can’t stand waiting around like this!” Stiles said, putting his hands up in the air. “My nerves are racked. They're severely racked.”

“Don’t be dramatic, bro,” Scott told him.

“ _Racked_ , Scott.” It didn’t help when Scott laughed.

“You look great, Stiles,” Kira tried to soothe, tugging him so they faced each other. She looped the tie around his neck and carefully began to knot it together. “You’re worrying too much.” Scott was nodding solemnly behind her.

“This is a fancy-smancy event that I have no idea how to behave in!” Stiles exclaimed. “Everyone is going to be old and rich and then there will be me, little Stiles, sitting there in his oversized dress clothes and pale skin.”

“Those aren’t oversized,” Scott said, glancing at his clothes, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Oh my _god,_ Scott, you’re totally missing the point,” he said, exasperated, and Kira giggled. “I’m having an early-life crisis! Both of you are no help!”

Kira swatted him. “I just spent over thirty minutes ironing that shirt, don’t you dare tell me I’m no help.” Stiles grinned apologetically at her. She smiled. “You need to relax,” she told him. “You won’t be all alone. Derek will be there, too, when intermission happens. Plus before and after. And the other Hales are sitting with you, right? So you can talk to Laura and Cora and Peter.” Stiles groaned, not sure if this information was helping or hurting his mindset. He was excited to see Derek, for sure, but he was nervous about embarrassing him or looking weird or in general just being the hyperactive kid he tended to be. He wanted the Hales to like him.

Plus he had a surprise planned for Derek, one that took the form of a small envelope stuffed with photos, and he wanted giving it to Derek to go well. _Really well._ So well that Derek would be can’t-stop-grinning-over-the-moon happy. And hey, maybe want to hop in his pants and fuck him senseless. Win for both parties.

“You’re gonna be late,” Scott told him, and Stiles looked at the clock on his phone and swore. He was out the door in minutes, the envelope stuffed in his inner jacket pocket, his wallet and phone the only other things he was carrying. A few minutes later he was in a cab, heading to the ACM performance hall, his legs bounding up and down with nerves. He felt like he was in way over his head. He knew nothing about classical music, least of all piano music, and he wondered if he would even be able to tell if Derek messed up on stage. Probably not.

The ACM performance hall was a fancy, marble building with large glass doors and a front courtyard that had a majestic-looking fountain that must have been a Greek god of some sort, but that Stiles didn’t recognize because he hadn’t really paid attention in Latin class, like, _ever._ But he didn’t even care, because a different Greek god was waiting for him when he stepped out of the taxi and paid.

“Stiles!” Derek said, sounding pleased to see him, and Stiles glanced at his phone. He was right on time, and breathed an internal sigh of relief. Stiles would never get over the surprise of Derek hugging him in public, in front of _real people,_ no matter how many times it happened, and this time was no different. Stiles felt warmth flow up and down his body like a pleasant wave when Derek hugged him, tight, and then left an arm looped around his hip when they pulled apart.

“Hey, sorry that I wasn’t early,” Stiles told him, and Derek shook his head. He was looking Stiles up and down, a look on his face that Stiles could have sworn was amusement. “What?” Stiles asked, glancing down at himself nervously. “My fly isn’t like, unzipped or something, is it?”

Derek laughed, then squeezed his hipbone. “You look _amazing,_ ” he said, his voice low, and Stiles felt the urge to swallow when Derek leaned down. He managed to get in one lick of his lips before they were kissing in the middle of the courtyard, the cool mist from the fountain drifting over them and making him shiver against Derek’s body. At least, he was going to blame the mist for that. Definitely. He curled his hands around Derek’s biceps, giving them a gentle squeeze, and Derek grinned against his mouth. “I love the way you look in those,” Derek whispered to him, as if it was a secret between just the two of them, and Stiles felt his mind buzz with self-satisfaction.

“You don’t look half-bad,” Stiles replied, cheekily, and Derek laughed. He was dressed in the same suit that he had worn at the MoMA event weeks ago. Stiles had to stop and think it over, because it felt like that memory was from years ago. He hadn’t even really known Derek then. Stiles, lost in thought, glanced up at the building behind them, his eyes scanning the darkening sky. Someone on the top of the stares caught his eye, not because they were remarkable in any way, but because he could feel their gaze on him. Scratch that, he could feel their _glare_ on him. Stiles blinked at the woman a few times, taken aback at the anger in which she was looking at him. She was blonde, tall, and wearing a deep merlot-colored dress that clung to her body and ended right above her knees. Stiles was trying to figure out how in the hell he knew her when she turned on her heel and clicked away inside.

“What are you looking at?” Derek asked, eyebrows furrowing as he turned to where Stiles was staring. In the back of his mind, Stiles felt a moment of contentment when he noticed Derek hadn’t removed his hand from his hipbone.

“Someone was totally just glaring at me,” Stiles told him, and then shook his head. Who cared about some random chick? She probably thought he was someone else. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Tonight is about _you,_ big guy.” He lightly punched Derek on the shoulder, and Derek grabbed his hand.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, his voice slightly pained and playful, and Stiles wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. Derek groaned in disbelief. “Only you would make an innuendo out of that.”

“What can I say? I’m a gift to humanity with my skills.”

Derek snorted. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Stiles’ nerves kicked in as Derek took his hand and started walking, at he began to blabber to try and distract himself. “I’ve never really been to a classical music concert before. Actually I only have one classical song on my iPod, and that wasn’t even my choice, because my friends put it on there so I could try and focus to do my math homework. I think it conditioned me to hate that song, because every time I hear about it I think of math. And I know math is important, and everything, but…” On and on and on.

Derek listened to him blabber, a small smile on his face, the entire time they got through security and went into the main lobby. The way he was holding Stiles hand made him feel like he was wanted, like maybe Derek was showing everyone there that Stiles was _his._ Because even when people nodded to Derek in greeting and stuck out their hands to shake, Derek didn’t let go of Stiles’ hand, shaking with his left hand instead. Stiles didn’t want him to let go, truthfully.

“Who are they?” Stiles whispered to Derek, and Derek looked over to the group that Stiles was examining. They were sipping wine and chatting, dressed in what looked to be _very_ expensive suits.

“Some fancy music people,” Derek replied, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“That was helpful and specific,” he drawled, and Derek huffed.

“I don’t get involved in the bureaucracy of the music industry. Some are OK, and they actually like the music. But most are stuck-up bastards who think they know the right and wrong of notes,” Derek muttered, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin at that. It was true that Derek hadn’t smiled at anyone besides Stiles yet. Not the most social butterfly.

Stiles started talking again, this time about one of Scott’s professors who claimed to have an IQ of 180. Stiles was only able to shut his mouth when he saw the other Hales near the entrance to the theatre, waiting. “Stiles!” Laura squealed, and jumped forward to hug him. She squeezed him tight, making him wheeze slightly, and Cora pat him on the shoulder. Peter just grinned and hugged Derek, who hugged back awkwardly.

“I’m so proud of you, Der,” Cora told him in a drawl, and Derek glared at her. Laura shoved her elbow into his ribs and he coughed out a thanks.

“No, but really,” Laura said, happily, her eyes scanning the tall ceiling and fancy carpet, “this is amazing. I remember you talking about this _years_ ago, and now you’ll be the one on stage!”

“Only for two songs,” Derek mumbled, clearly not knowing what to do about the praise, and Stiles squeezed his hand.

“Well, they’ll be the two _best_ songs,” Stiles said, and he could have sworn he saw Derek flush slightly. Laura started talking to him about a concert she had been to just last week with some saxophone players and an improv group, and Stiles ran his thumb over the back of Derek’s hand to soothe him. He didn’t have to look at his face to know that Derek was getting nervous. He was very, very quiet.

“I still can’t believe how wonderful the photos turned out,” Laura gushed to Stiles, and he grinned. He had sent Cora the photos the week after the shoot, and they had turned out very well. Maybe Stiles was biased, but he thought that they were the best models he had had so far. Thinking back to the fact that he normally shot professional models who were paid to pose with Erica, Stiles conceded that he most definitely was biased. But whatever. They were still working on the exact font design for the band name, and it was a great excuse to get to know Cora a bit better. It was both a blessing and a curse: he got to have quality boyfriend-sister time, but he was out-sassed every single minute.

Peter glanced at his watch. “We should sit down.” The others nodded. Laura glanced at Derek and Stiles and smiled. She grabbed Cora and Peter by the arms and started to drag them away.

“See you soon, Stiles!” she called back, and Stiles had never been so grateful for her presence before. Out of all of Derek’s family, Stiles adored Laura the most. She just _got it._ Stiles waved to them, and then turned to face Derek. The older man seemed distracted, and his palms were slightly sweaty.

“You’re going to do great,” Stiles told him, and Derek let out a sigh. “No, really, I know you will. I’ve heard you play, and you’ve been practicing a ton.” It was true. Every time Stiles had hung out at Derek’s, he had been practicing in the piano room off of the main living area. “You’re going to rock this, and then afterwards we are going back to your place and having crazy wild sex.”

Derek made a surprised noise at this, half-laugh and half-yelp, and Stiles grinned. Derek’s hands found his hips and he touched their foreheads together. “I’m nervous,” he said, eventually, and Stiles squeezed his hands. He knew how hard it was for Derek to say that.

“Just don’t think about the audience,” Stiles said. “When I was in kindergarten I did this play where I had to be a vegetable, right? I was a carrot, which was very uncomfortable, by the way, but anyways—I was a carrot, and I had to say this line to the audience and I was freaking _petrified._ But when the time came, I just looked and I didn’t let myself see the crowd. I just saw my dad and my mom, and everything else melted away.”

Derek was looking at him, seeming slightly amused. “Did you just compare this to a kindergarten play?”

Stiles grinned and nodded. “Yes, yes I did. At least you look hot and you aren’t in bright orange.”

“Did you say your line right?” Derek asked, and Stiles laughed.

“Yep, I did.” He paused, and then added, “But, uh, I did trip on the way out. And I might have ripped the curtain off the wall. So there was that.”

“That’s comforting,” Derek said, his voice dry. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“But! I said the line right.” Derek snorted, and Stiles leaned forward to kiss him quickly.

“Basically, you’re telling me to find an anchor that isn’t the audience?”

“Good boy,” Stiles said, and Derek playfully squeezed his sides. “Ow, ow, ok, you’re not a dog, I get it. Even if you are a sourwolf.” Stiles glanced back at the theatre, and Derek let him go with a sigh. “I’ll see you at intermission,” Stiles told him, and Derek just nodded. He took a breath in and then turned on his heel, heading to the performer entrance. “Don’t be nervous!” Stiles called after him, and Derek flipped him off. He laughed, and watched him until he had turned the corner.

Stiles was so in over his head, it wasn’t even funny.

The theatre was dark, but he found the other Hales without any trouble. As he settled down next to Laura, who gave him a wide smile and a bottle of water, he prepared himself for whatever could possibly be next. He hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep.

Turns out he couldn’t have slept even if he wanted to. The music was loud, not so much that your ears hurt, but certainly enough to keep a baby up all night. And Stiles didn’t want to sleep, anyways, because the music was actually ok. Granted, it wasn’t something he would rock out to in his room, but he found it oddly soothing. That, and he couldn’t really read the program, so he had no idea when Derek would be playing and therefore felt like he had to be on high alert. It would be just like him to miss Derek’s performance entirely, and he was not going to let that happen. He wanted to be able to write a freaking sonnet about Derek’s piece if he had to.

When Derek came on, Stiles was feeling major secondhand anxiety. He might just be sweating through his borrowed fancy jacket, which he knew he couldn’t do because Isaac would _kill_ him, but he couldn’t help it. Derek looked stoic, emotionless, just as he did during MoMA. He was gazing at the crowd, eyes flickering everywhere, and Stiles suddenly shot his hand up into the air without even thinking. It was dark and he didn’t know why he did it, because there was no way Derek could see. They were close to the stage, but not _that_ close. But Derek’s eyes seemed to flicker towards the movement, and Stiles stilled. Laura and Cora were both looking at him, but Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from Derek’s face.

He moved his fingers, just a little, and Derek’s eyes zoomed to his hand. And Derek actually smiled. It was small, and only there for a second, but their eyes somehow met and Stiles _knew,_ he just _knew_ that Derek could see him. Laura clasped a hand over her mouth and Cora’s eyebrows raised into her hairline. Peter was looking at Derek, something soft in his gaze that Stiles didn’t really understand the reason for.

And then the smile was gone, and Derek turned toward the baby grand. When he sat down at the piano, something in him seemed to relax. “Breathe, Stiles,” Laura whispered to him, squeezing his hand, and Stiles sucked in a shaky breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. The sound of piano music began to drift through the theatre, and it was beautiful. Stiles doesn’t know what the song is called or who wrote it, or even how long it is; but he does know that Derek does an amazing job. When he finished, Derek stood up, took a small bow, and walked offstage to a respectful applause.

“Probably not a good idea to wolf-whistle?” Stiles whispered to Laura, and she laughed.

A few songs later and intermission started, and Stiles thanked whatever god or gods exist because he _really_ had to pee. He rushed ahead of the others to the bathroom, because they were milling about in their seats and talking to the people behind them (whom, he presumed, must be friends or acquaintances of some kind). When he walked out a few minutes later, feeling much better, the lobby is crowded and people are chatting. He didn’t see the Hales anywhere, but he knew Derek would find him eventually, so he went over to a few paintings on the wall and looked at them aimlessly. He was absent-mindedly wondering if he could take photos of the stage at some point in his career when someone bumped into him, hard.

“Whoa,” he said, taking a step back and turning. But he stopped, mouth open, as he saw the glaring woman from before standing there. She was holding a glass of red wine in one hand, the other on her hip. Up close, he could tell that she was objectively beautiful. Her hair was long and sleek, and her lips plump with red gloss. But something about her made Stiles feel like he was prey. “Can I help you?” he asked, slowly, and she scowled.

“Are you with Derek Hale?” she asked, and Stiles raised his eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, and Stiles couldn’t help but think that her voice is a bit too harsh and… angry.

“Not like it’s any of your business,” Stiles said, “but yeah. I am. Why?”

“What’s your name?” she asked, and Stiles gaped at her again.

“Why were you glaring at me earlier?” he retorted, and she snorted.

“You don’t deserve him,” she said, and Stiles blinked a few times. Ok, this was progressing fast. She had to be talking about Derek; after all, who else was he with? “He’s straight, you know. I don’t know why he’s with a faggot like you.”

At this, Stiles’ eyebrows raised high on his face. Part of him wanted to laugh hysterically, while the other part was trying to process what was even happening. Never had he been called that before, not even in high school. “No, he’s not straight…” he said, slowly. “Because, you know, I think I have evidence to the contrary.” He couldn’t help sounding smug, just slightly, because who the hell did she think she was?

And suddenly her hand was gripping his arm, and she looked furious. Her nails dug into his skin and Stiles winced, jerking back. “What the fuck?” he demanded, raising his voice slightly, and she glared at him.

“He’s a liar and a cheat, and you can’t believe anything he says,” she hissed, and Stiles stared at her in shock. Over her shoulder, he saw Cora and Laura in the crowd. Stiles met their eyes, and they looked at him—and both of them went pale when they saw the woman.

“Weren’t you just in love with him?” Stiles retorted, and she looked livid.

“He’s the one in love with _me._ ”

“Oook. Well. I have no idea who the fuck you are, but get off me,” Stiles told her, trying to stay calm, and she laughed mockingly.

“Oh, little baby boyfriend doesn’t know who I am? Because little baby boyfriend is being lied to all the time, because Derek was with _me,_ and should be with _me,_ and not _you._ ” Stiles mouth was open, then, thoroughly confused and disturbed.

“Get off,” he said, firmly, trying to pry her hand off him. _Damn, she’s strong._ Her nails were definitely leaving marks, and Stiles wanted her off of him as soon as possible. “Who the hell are you?”

“His girlfriend!” she snapped, and Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. He froze. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his own breathing, which was increasing in rate by the second. _Girlfriend?_ Suddenly his brain was replaying memories, thinking of anything that would suggest this was the truth. He couldn’t imagine it. He had been spending at least three days a week with Derek, and some nights included. The others, either he had projects or Derek did, or he was hanging out with Scott. It wasn’t possible.

“You’re lying,” Stiles said, but his voice shook. He clenched his hands and tried to jerk away again, her nails stinging. “You’re crazy. Derek is dating _me._ ” He had to say it out loud, almost to reassure himself that it was true. How many times had he thought it was impossible for Derek to fall for someone like him? The voices in the back of his mind, the ones that told him Derek was way out of his league, were rearing their heads up eagerly at her words.

“He’s just _using_ you,” she sneered at him. “Just like he uses everyone. Invites them to his gigs, shows them off. Makes them feel _special._ Well here’s a news flash, sweetheart: you’re worth nothing. Not to him, not to his psycho family—to no one.”

Her words stung, and Stiles didn’t really know why—because he doesn’t know her or how she knows Derek or why she is there. “You know nothing about me, and you’re crazy,” he repeated, and nearly fell over backwards when a full glass of wine hit him in the face. He stumbled back, dripping, and three or four people looked over in concern. She had just _thrown_ her wine at him. Stiles stood there in shock. This was only something that happened in cheesy wedding movies, where the divorced parents get in a fight at dinner but then start making out over the cake. Stiles couldn’t believe that this was happening, but as the wine soaked through his shirt he was hit with anger and indignation.

But when Cora popped up behind the woman and grabbed her arm, he felt a wave of panic wash over him, because this was suddenly all too real. “What the _hell,_ ” Cora snarled, “are you doing here, Kate?” The woman turned to her, eyes flashing, and raised her hand to slap her. In one swift movement, Cora had grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back. Laura was next to Stiles then, holding onto his arm. She was pressing a napkin against his shirt and face, looking outraged.

“You have a restraining order!” Laura hissed at the woman—Kate—and Kate just glared at her.

“Only because you forced him to do it,” Kate snapped, struggling uselessly against Cora, and Stiles was thoroughly lost. “You’re a fucked-up family with stupid lives and worse priorities, and ever since your parents died—”

“Don’t you dare talk about them!” Cora said, her voice nearly a yell, and a few attendees turned their heads. And then Peter was there, and the look on his face made Stiles want to shrink back. He had never seen Peter look that angry. “Call the police,” Cora told him, and he whipped out his cell.

“Stiles?” And Stiles turned around as fast as he could at the voice. He felt a small sense of relaxation prick at the corner of his mind. Because Derek was standing there, his eyes wide as he looked at the broken wine glass on the floor and the crowd that was slowly gathering around the scene. His eyes hovered on Stiles’ clothes, stained with wine, and then moved behind him. He turned pale.

“Derek—” Stiles began, confused, his heart beating madly in his chest, but Derek had grabbed him by the arms before he could finish. Derek jerked him away from Kate, eyes wide.

“You!” Derek snarled, and Stiles could feel the tightness in his muscles. Derek was standing tall, towering practically, and it was almost frightening. “What the hell—”

“Don’t be surprised, Derek, darling,” Kate said, and Stiles felt himself twitch with jealously. Derek was gripping his arms still, and he felt Stiles’ movement. The look he gave Stiles was partly terrified, partly concerned.

“I am not your darling, and I never was. You’re a disgusting part of my past that means nothing to me.” Stiles had never heard Derek so sickened before. He sounded appalled at the very thought of her.

“I saw you last night,” Kate sneered, her eyes flickering between Stiles and Derek, and Stiles looked up at Derek with slight desperation. There was no way that could be true. Derek wasn’t looking at him, but he seemed infuriated.

“Maybe you saw me, but I sure as hell didn’t see you. Have fun going to _jail,_ ” Derek hissed, and Kate’s expression turned sour.

“After everything we went through together—”

“No, shut up!” Derek snapped, and suddenly security guards were there. Apparently the commotion had finally been noticed by enough people. “You mean after everything _you_ put _me_ through. There’s a restraining order for a reason.” Peter was talking to the security guards while Kate struggled against Cora again.

“You’re a _whore,_ ” she suddenly spat, and Stiles jerked in surprise when their eyes met. “You’re nothing but a dirty whore, he’s just _using you—_ ”

“Stay the fuck away from my boyfriend!” Derek practically yelled, taking a step forward. Stiles grabbed his arm, suddenly afraid Derek was going to do something stupid, like punch her. He seriously doubted that would help the situation. “If you so much as look at him again, Kate, I swear to god I’ll kill you.”

“He’s threatening me!” Kate screeched to the guards, who were attempting to drag her away. Cora let go of her, looking somewhat reluctant, as the guards got a firm grip on her arms. “You’ll regret ever breaking up with me, Derek—and so will your pretty boy there, because now he _knows_ what a liar you are—” Derek was still at her words, his hands fisted together, veins pulsing on his neck. Peter had stepped forward, his hand on Derek’s shoulder, back to Kate. But Kate wasn’t done. “You’re going to ruin your own damn life, Derek—hell, you already have. You’re long gone, nothing’s saving you now. And now that pretty boy knows, he’s going to run away as fast as he can and just leave you in the dust. That’s what happens when you date a faggot and turn gay—”

At this, Stiles had had enough. “Alright,” he said, loudly, and they all turned to face him with slightly taken aback expressions. “First off: I’m bi, ok? Stop assuming that your highly restrictive labels –which, by the way, are quite immature and offensive—work for everyone. Second, I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I trust Derek _way_ more than I trust you. You just _attacked_ me.” He took a step forward and, with a braver face than he actually felt, met her eyes. “So, whoever you are: don’t think you’ve changed a single thing.”

Things were still for a few moments, no one having expected that long of a response, and then Kate started shrieking. “Get her _out_ of here, for goodness’ sake!” Cora snapped, looking exasperated about the whole ordeal. Derek was gripping Stiles’ shoulder, seeming unsure if he should look at the younger man or at Kate. The other attendees looked horrified as the guards tried to move her away as gently as possible. She was yelling curses at Derek, and then at Stiles, and it was only when they forcibly handcuffed her that she fell silent. Within seconds, she was being taken out the door.

“What the fuck,” Cora hissed, watching her go, and it took a moment for Stiles to realize just how disconcerted he was. Sure, he had been able to bluff his way through the situation, but he was definitely not cool with what had just gone down. _What_ had just happened, actually? His heart was racing and his palms were sweating, and he felt strangely cold. He realized he was shaking. Now that he wasn’t in the moment, he definitely felt even more confused. And betrayed. And afraid.

He turned to Derek. “Did you see her last night?” he whispered, and he wished his voice hadn’t broken. Yeah, ok, the fear was definitely there. It didn’t matter what he had told Kate: he had always been doubtful of his ability to keep Derek. But he didn’t want to think that Derek could have gotten bored; Derek was a better person than that. Stiles _knew_ that. So why was he freaking out?

“No!” Derek said, instantly, grabbing his arms. “No, god, never. No. Stiles—I—she—you can’t believe a thing she said—”

“I don’t,” Stiles said firmly, interrupting him. “But I do want to know who the hell she is, and why she said those things.” The other Hales were scrambling around, attempting to straighten up the mess that had been created. Laura was still pressing napkins onto Stiles’ stained shirt. He wanted to wave her away.

“Derek, you have to go back in,” Peter was saying, and Stiles realized that people were filtering back into the theatre. He wanted to scream, because this was _not_ how he imagined the night going. “They’re calling the performers to get backstage, and you’re third. There isn’t time for this right now.”

“No! I’m not leaving Stiles alone now. Screw the piece,” Derek snapped, but Stiles shook his head.

“You have to go, they’re counting on you,” he said, and Derek looked at him in shock. He sighed, and just barely resisted the urge to press his fingers into the headache that was steadily building in his forehead. “Look, I’m upset, ok? I’m not going to deny that. But you missing out on your second performance isn’t going to help anything.”

“I can explain,” Derek told him, desperately, and Stiles shook his head again.

“I know. I believe you,” he said, and Derek sucked in a breath. “If you told me that you didn’t see her last night, then I believe that you didn’t see her last night. Ok?” Stiles really was trying his best to remain calm, and Derek looking at him with that face wasn’t helping in the slightest. He looked… frazzled. And _afraid._ Derek had never been afraid before, not in front of Stiles. Mad? Sure. Afraid? No, that was much worse. Stiles would take Angry Derek over Scared Derek any day.

“I…” Derek said, his voice a whisper. He was hovering indecisively, holding onto Stiles’ arms while Peter tried to gently tug him away. “If I—will you still be here when I get back? You’re not—you won’t leave without...”

“I just told you that,” Stiles said, trying not to sound frustrated, and he took a deep breath. Seeing Derek struggling so desperately for words was twisting something in his intestines, and he didn’t like that feeling at all. He needed this moment over with, _now._ “Yes, I’ll be here. I believe you, ok? Now just—just go out an impress the masses, yeah? Do your brooding face and charm their socks off.” He tried to smile, but it came out pained, strangled. Derek looked just as conflicted as his grip on Stiles’ wrists loosened, something in his eyes closing off as Peter pulled him away.

“I will be _right_ back,” Derek called to him, the edge of panic still in his voice, and Stiles nodded.

Laura was hugging him tightly. “Are you ok?” she asked as Derek and Peter disappeared around the corner (arguing), and Stiles’ throat suddenly felt tight. His heart was pounding. The horrible realization hit him. Oh my god, this could not be happening now. Not after all the commotion that had just happened.

“I—I need to use the restroom,” he croaked out, and jerked out of her grip. He was faintly aware of her calling out his name, concerned, but it didn’t matter. He needed to get somewhere isolated, quickly. His vision was closing down rapidly, his head pounding. He stumbled into the bathroom and leaned over the fancy marble sink, sucking in desperate breaths that were suddenly coming too quickly. His hands were shaking as he grabbed his cell from his pocket, typing in a number without even thinking.

“Stiles?” answered the voice, sounding confused, and Stiles gripped the sink so hard that it hurt.

“I’m going to have a panic attack,” he gasped, and shut his eyes.

“Oh,” Lydia said, her voice shooting up an octave. “I—ok. Ok, Stiles, listen to me. Just listen, alright? You need to try and breathe.”

“What do you _think_ I’m doing?” Stiles snapped, breathy and faint, and there was the sound of movement on the other end of the line, as if Lydia had raised her hands in disbelief. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles wondered why he had called her. She was far away. It’s not like she could do anything, after all. He should have called Scott.

“Don’t you dare give me attitude!” Lydia said, and then took in a deep breath. Stiles couldn’t help but find it funny that Lydia was scolding him right now. It wasn’t a comforting thought, but at least it was slightly distracting. “This is just like in the locker room, ok? We got through that. Remember? Get back in that space, that safe space. You know you’re safe, Stiles; whatever is happening, it’s going to be ok. Just like that time.”

Stiles tried to think back on high school. He remembered what Lydia was talking about. It was the day his father went down to Sacramento to deal with one of the high-profile cases, one that involved a serial killer doped on whatever assortment of drugs he could find, and on the way there a crash had occurred. The news had been showing photos of burning cop cars and Stiles hadn’t been able to get ahold of his father, and he had panicked. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking that if his father died, then he would be an orphan. All alone. It had been Lydia who found him in the locker room, gasping for air against the cold tile. She had held him tight, talked to him, brought him back from it.

He tried to think about that now, about the safety of her arms and her warmth. He had been in love with her, then; but even though they were just friends now, he could feel it helping, just a little bit. He didn’t feel like he was suffocating entirely, not anymore. But his legs were shaking and he couldn’t find the strength to keep himself up. He slid down to the floor, chest heaving, feeling disconnected from his surroundings.

“It’s ok,” Lydia was repeating, over and over on the other end, and Stiles wanted to believe her. He wanted to so badly. But it wasn’t calming him down past the initial point. He was still panicking.

“Stiles!” cried a voice, but he couldn’t look up. He didn’t even know where it was coming from. But he flinched when he felt someone touch his back. “It’s ok,” the voice said, soothingly, and started rubbing circles on his back. “Just breathe. She’s gone, Kate’s gone. Derek would never hurt you like that, Stiles.”

It was with teary eyes and blurred vision that Stiles managed to look up. Laura met his gaze, and it was with a weak gasp that he allowed her to pull him into a hug. Laura was gently tugging the phone out of his hand and he let it go, his arms falling to his sides, tense. He could hear her saying something to Lydia, and Lydia replying, but it didn’t matter. He knew he had to calm down.

Gradually, his breathing slowed. His mind stopped buzzing furiously. The feeling returned to his hands and toes. He forced himself to take deep breaths, in and out, like his therapist in high school has taught him. His eyes were closed and he didn’t want to open them, not for a long, long time. His body was shaking from exhaustion, the tension bleeding out of his muscles painfully. He didn’t want to look at Laura.

“Are you ok?” she asked, eventually, and Stiles drew in a breath. It was a relief to breathe again.

“I—yeah,” he mumbled. “I just… I have anxiety, you know? So I… I get panic attacks, sometimes. But… you helped. So… thanks.” It felt like a lame way to thank someone for helping him through an attack, but he didn’t know what to say. If he could have, he would have handled it alone. He hadn’t wanted any of the Hales seeing, but he couldn’t muster any anger towards Laura for coming in to check on him. It wasn’t her fault this had happened.

“My little sister used to get those,” Laura said, quietly, and Stiles glanced back at her again. “She died with Mom and Dad, though. So I haven’t seen one in a while. But you don’t need to be embarrassed. I know it’s not something that feels good, you know? And I’m sorry. That thing with Kate—that was scary. Even for me, and I know her.”

“You do?” Stiles croaked, and Laura nodded.

“She was a few years ahead of me in school. She’s always been… intense.”

“Who is she?” he managed to say, and swallowed loudly. His throat was dry. Laura hugged him again.

“A ghost of the past that doesn’t want to go away,” she told him, and Stiles looked at her blankly. She sighed. “Derek has tried for years to get her to leave him alone. We got the restraining order nine months ago. I had thought that chapter of his life was over, but I guess she doesn’t give up easily.” Stiles shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to think about Derek being near Kate in any way at all. He was surprisingly jealous. It was ridiculous. After all, if she had a restraining order against her then Derek clearly didn’t want her around. But it still hurt.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin when there was a knock on the door. “What’s going on in there?” Cora’s voice called through the door, and that was when Stiles remembered that they were in the guy’s restroom in a theatre that his boyfriend was performing in. A performance that he should be watching. Probably right now.

“Just a second!” Laura called back, still rubbing Stiles’ back. He felt like a little kid, and it was humiliating. “Can you stand up?”

“Y-yeah,” he said, and he managed to get his shaky legs underneath him again. When he glanced in the mirror, he swore. “Shit, I look awful.” He did. His eyes were red, his hair unkempt and cheeks traced with tear tracks. Now that he had the chance to look at his clothes, he remembered the wine. Everything was stained, and Stiles groaned when he concluded that Isaac was going to stick him in a basement and leave him to die. “Um, give me a minute, yeah? I’ll meet you guys back in the theatre. It’s probably not a good idea for two girls to hang out in the guy’s bathroom, you know?”

Laura nodded, and handed him back his phone. When she left, it was wonderfully silent. Stiles splashed his face with water, and spent a few minutes uselessly rubbing soap into his shirt to try and undo some of the damage. He gave up with a sigh, attempted to manhandle his hair into semi-normalcy, and squared his shoulders.

When he slipped back into the concert hall and settled shakily down into his seat, Derek was already playing onstage. Stiles couldn’t look at him, not even a little, because he was seriously overwhelmed. Laura placed a hand on his arm, and he shifted so that he could squeeze her hand in thanks. He was starting to get just how much the Hales cared about him, and it was comforting. He was only able to look up at the stage when the music ended and Derek stood up. He looked darker, something that Stiles hadn’t thought was possible for him. It was as if a barely-contained rage was boiling under his skin, and Stiles could see his hands visibly shaking. Derek didn’t even bow this time, instead choosing to stalk directly off the stage and behind the curtain.

“That’s not good,” he heard Peter murmur to Cora, who looked slightly concerned. Stiles was taking deep breaths. They were going to have to talk about this, and he wanted to be in control when that happened. Derek clearly hadn’t been expecting this to happen and was disconcerted; and Stiles knew enough about Derek to be prepared for a lot of withheld emotion and anxiety. He knew the concert would be going on for at least another hour, and he hoped he could contain himself within that time.

It turned out he didn’t have that time. Five minutes after Derek walked off stage, Stiles heard the sound of someone making their way down the aisle to where they were sitting. He glanced up and did a double-take as Derek squeezed his way between the rows, looking closed-off.

“Can we go?” he whispered roughly, the instant they were close enough to hear each other, and Stiles nodded quickly. He scrambled up and his chair let out a whine, causing the people in the row behind him to glare, but he didn’t care. Derek made a motion to grab his hand, seemed to think better of it, and shoved them in his pockets. Stiles heart ached at the action.

“Bye, guys,” he whispered hastily to the other Hales, who seemed torn between following or letting them be. Derek and Peter were having some kind of non-verbal communication with their eyes, and Laura was watching Stiles with a kind look. _It’s ok,_ she mouthed to him, and he nodded. Stiles wriggled his way out of the row, following closely behind Derek’s quick pace. When they emerged back into the lobby area, Stiles had to blink a few times from the brightness.

Derek was walking quickly across the lobby, not looking back, and Stiles called after him. “Derek! Wait! Just wait, ok?” But Derek was already through the doors, and with an annoyed huff, Stiles raced after him. As Derek was walking down the stairs, Stiles shouted, “ _Derek!_ My legs aren’t as tall as the Empire State, even if yours are!”

Derek turned around to face him, his mouth open to reply, and then he seemed to falter. His eyes raked over Stiles’ face. “What happened?” he asked, hastily stepping forward to close the distance between them, and Stiles grimaced. He knew he still looked terrible.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, leaning into Derek’s warm hand that was suddenly against his arm. A cool breeze drifted through the courtyard. The fountain had stopped flowing. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You don’t look fine. Neither one of us is fine,” Derek said, the words rushed, and Stiles tried to look indignant.

“Ouch, man. Are you saying my beauty isn’t captivating?”

“Stiles,” Derek warned, and Stiles sighed again. Derek wasn’t buying his happy-go-lucky routine.

“I… sometimes, my anxiety gets really bad, and I have panic attacks.” Derek’s expression turned to pure horror, and he flinched away from Stiles. Stiles wasn’t having that, not at all. He grabbed Derek by the sleeve, yanking him back. “Relax. I’ve had it happen before—”

“Not because of _me,_ ” Derek said, running his hands through his hair in distress. “This is my fault—”

“No, you don’t get to do that,” Stiles snapped. “You can’t just freak out every time something bad happens to me, you can’t blame yourself for actions that weren’t even yours. It’s not your fault, ok? It’s—whoever that Kate woman is. And—and I’m way more concerned about what the hell is going on with that than my panic attack.”

Derek was looking closed-off again. He glanced around the courtyard. “Can we not talk about this here?” he said, and the vulnerability in his voice made Stiles nod. He squeezed Derek’s arm.

“I don’t care where we talk about it, ok? Let’s—how about we get a taxi, yeah?”

The ride back was, to say the least, awkward. Derek was rubbing his wrists and clenching his hands, not touching Stiles, opting instead to look out the window at the lights flickering by. It was painfully quiet, the kind of quiet that got under Stiles’ skin and made him fidget uncontrollably. He couldn’t help but feel a huge wave of relief when the cab pulled up to Derek’s apartment. When they walked through the door and into the perfectly organized living room, Derek threw his jacket on a nearby chair and sunk onto the couch, his head in his hands. Stiles threw his jacket on top of Derek’s and, with a thump, plopped down next to him. Their legs were touching, and it was easy for Stiles to reach out and start rubbing Derek’s arm. He moved his hand up and down, soothing and gentle.

“You’re freaking out,” Stiles said, softly. “You don’t need to be freaking out.” Derek looked up at him, then, and he looked conflicted.

“I had a plan to tell you all this,” he said, and then buried his face in his hands again. “I wanted to break it nice and slow. I’m so fucked up, Stiles.”

Stiles couldn’t help but snort at this. “Dude, my mother is dead, I have ADHD and anxiety, and I’m prone to both over-exaggeration and constant embarrassment. We’re both fucked up. Nothing from your past could make me run away.”

“You don’t even know what happened,” Derek said, his voice muffled, and Stiles shook his head.

“Yeah, you’re right. But…” he paused, and Derek looked up. Stiles couldn’t help but stare at his eyes, the green now so familiar that he couldn’t imagine the nineteen years he didn’t have it. He took a deep breath in, and started his sentence over. “You know why Kate disconcerted me so much? It wasn’t because she attacked me, or spilled wine all over my clothes, or called me a faggot.” At this, Derek’s hand found his. “What scared me is that she presented herself as a threat to _us._ To our relationship. Because—because to be honest, Derek, nothing scares me more than the thought that you won’t want me. I think about it all the time, about what it would be like to have you leave and I—I just can’t handle that, ok? It makes me want to scream.”

Derek was facing him now, squeezing his hands tightly. “Stiles,” he whispered, but Stiles held up a finger.

“Wait just—just let me finish. Look, nothing but you explicitly ordering me to leave could make me go away, alright? So if you still want me, then I’m here. Because I sure as hell still want you. And nothing about your past is going to make me change that.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. “I don’t want you to go,” Derek said, his voice hoarse, and Stiles nodded. Derek kissed him, and relief washed over Stiles. It was deep and intense, the kind of kiss that made goosebumps cover his skin from the meaning Derek was putting into it. He leaned into Derek’s space, pressing his fingers against the side of Derek’s neck as Derek cupped Stiles’ face in his hands. When they separated, it was silent. Stiles waited, patient. He knew Derek would talk, eventually.

“When I was a senior in high school,” Derek started, his voice quiet, “my parents got into a car crash.” He wasn’t looking at Stiles. “They said that it was instant, you know, painless. We still lost so much, though. I know you weren’t aware of this, but I used to have seven siblings.” Stiles sucked in a small breath, squeezing Derek’s hands. “Three died with them in the crash, and two others committed suicide a few weeks after. Our family was really close, almost like a pack, and it… It really messed me up. I didn’t know how to cope with any of it. Peter took us in but he had just lost family, too, after all, and his help just wasn’t enough. They said I should get a therapist but I was young and stubborn, so I didn’t. My grades were slipping and I was getting in fights and—and that’s when I met Kate.”

Derek finally looked up at him. “I don’t know why I decided to get with her. I didn’t know, even then. I _knew_ I was gay, but I just needed something—someone who would make me feel like I was desired. We had sex before we even knew each other’s names, at some party of a friend. I remember hating it the entire time, but—but it made me feel like I was more in control. We started dating, because I figured that’s what I was supposed to do, and I knew that having a girlfriend and acting happy would get Peter to get off my back about the therapist. Plus Kate was the girl that everyone wanted: pretty, popular, clever—in a cruel way.

“Before I knew it, I was way over my head. Kate was intense, always had been. She loved sex and showing me off to people, always wanted it. We went to parties all the time. Even if I didn’t want to or told her no, she would push and push and push. So I started giving in. I gave up. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was separating me from everyone: my friends, my coworkers, even my family. I would spend days with her, driving her around or buying her things. I felt guilty, I guess, because when I didn’t do what she wanted she made me feel like shit. She said that I had to work hard if I wanted to be worth her time. My music was never good enough, my body was never good enough— _I_ was never enough. And I wanted to be. I wanted someone to think I was worthy of something, to think that I had a future. So I clung to Kate for that, and she used it to control me.

“We broke up when I was a year into college. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I told her to leave me alone, but she didn’t. She kept showing up at my gigs, harassing me whenever she saw me. I finally told Peter what happened with her, and he helped me sort out some legal stuff to get a restraining order. It took them two years to push it through, because she kept claiming I had threatened her and was mentally unstable. But it was made official about nine months ago. I hadn’t seen her since, until tonight.”

“She’s been doing this for over five years?” Stiles asked, weakly, and Derek nodded. Stiles was mad, then. “That’s fucked up. I—that—wow, that makes me _really_ angry.” Derek was looking at him with wide eyes. Stiles reached out and started stroking his wrists. “God, Derek, I am so sorry that happened to you.”

Derek blinked a few times. “You’re not mad?” he asked, and Stiles gaped at him.

“What? No! How could I be mad? She’s totally crazy, and she completely took advantage of you,” Stiles exclaimed. “None of this is your fault. She’s psycho, and I hope she gets locked up for at least five thousand years.”

Derek seemed to deflate slightly, his eyes staring intently at Stiles’. “I thought—maybe you would think I’m straight or—that I lied to you—and then all the stuff about my parents—”

Stiles looped his hand around Derek’s bicep, pulling them closer together. “I trust you,” he said, simply, and Derek literally twitched in surprise. Stiles bit his lip, nervously, then pressed his face into Derek’s neck. “I can trust you, right?”

“Yes,” Derek replied, instantly, his arm coming up around Stiles’ waist and pressing their bodies tight together. “Hell yes, you can. I—Stiles…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles said, so quietly that the only reason he knew Derek had heard him was from the increased tightness of the hold. They were quiet for a while, both of them settling down.

“How do you handle this so well?” Derek asked, suddenly, and Stiles looked up at him. _Because I’m fucked up, too,_ he wanted to say. _Because my mom died when I was fifteen and I can’t even look at planes, and I wake up most nights screaming and tangled up in my blankets. Because I’m just as desperate and afraid as you are._

Instead, he said, “I’m a gift to humanity, remember?”

At this, Derek snorted. The moment was broken as he chuckled, pulling Stiles close. “I’m just waiting for you to transform into some supernatural creature that can’t find the capacity to reject me,” he said, playfully, and Stiles grinned at him.

“I’m actually an abominable snowman. But it's more of, like, a wintertime thing. You know, seasonal.” Derek let out a bark of laughter, and Stiles grinned again. He loved making Derek laugh. “So I guess you’ll just have to wait until winter comes to see.”

“I can do that,” Derek said, something in his eyes going soft, and Stiles swallowed as the beating in his chest increased pace. He laughed it off. Then he remembered something.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, making Derek twitch slightly and shoot him a curious look. Stiles hyperactivity got the better of him as he scrambled off the couch, _gracefully_ tripping over to his jacket. “I have something for you.” Derek’s eyebrows furrowed as Stiles rummaged around in the jacket pocket, pulling out the small envelope.

“What’s this?” he asked, seeming hesitant, as Stiles settled back down next to him and held out the package. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be a baby, take it.” Derek glared at him, but nonetheless took it. Stiles, suddenly nervous, started talking again. “I, uh, wasn’t really expecting tonight to go as it did, you know—I was figuring we would get back and I would like pour you some wine—”

“You’re underage,” Derek said, monotone, tilting his head at the package as he slowly slid his finger under the opening. Damn, his fingers. _Focus, Stiles, focus._

“Not my point,” Stiles said, flailing his hands. “I’m saying that I was expecting a romantic, cheesy night, and so—so yeah, I kinda… I did a project thing. And maybe it doesn’t fit the mood now but…” he was trailing off, nervously biting his lip as Derek’s eyes widened from the contents of the envelope. Stiles’ pictures of the Hale family were in there, the shots that showed them naturally conversing and bickering.

“You took these?” Derek asked, his voice faint as his fingers skimmed over the picture of Laura and Cora, holding each other up and laughing. Right beside it lay one of Derek, absent-mindedly gazing out across the garden, his hands in his pockets. It was Stiles’ favorite of the shoot.

Stiles blushed. “I mean, it wasn’t a big deal, and I didn’t know if you would even like them and it’s totally fine if you don’t—”

Derek slammed their mouths together. He was suddenly in Stiles’ space, his hands pushing him towards the cushions. Stiles fell backwards onto the couch, limbs flailing in surprise as he felt the soft fabric hit the back of his head. Heat rushed from Stiles’ head straight to his abdomen, his fingers moving to clutch Derek’s biceps as their mouths pushed together with intent.

“I love them,” Derek said, his voice hoarse between the kisses. “I…” he began, “um…” In that moment, they gazed at each other. Stiles suddenly felt petrified, electrified. Derek opened his mouth once more—and then seemed to stop himself. “They’re the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” Stiles’ mind was racing as he tried to fathom what Derek had started to say. _I love you._

Between kisses, Stiles tried to speak. But it was too much, and with the tightness in his groin seeming to increase at an exponential rate, he started to let his body speak for him. Derek groaned into his mouth, eyes fluttering as Stiles rolled his hips up, pressing their half-hard cocks against each other.

“You know that wild sex I mentioned earlier?” Stiles managed to get out as Derek rutted against him, his neck tilted back so Derek could nip and lick at the veins there. He felt Derek nod, his fingers digging into the cushions by his head. “You down for that?”

Derek moan was answer enough.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles tapped his fingers anxiously on his knee, his foot twitching along in rhythm as he sat up in the plush red chair in the office. Marin was looking at him, pen in her hand, soft light filtering in through the window and casting a few shadows onto the carpet between them.

“It’s all going great,” Stiles said, eventually. Marin (last name Morell, which always reminded Stiles of a mushroom), raised an eyebrow at his hesitant voice. Stiles sighed. “Ok, maybe great is an overstatement. I mean— there was that thing with Kate.” Marin nodded. “But we talked about that, and it’s fine. I guess… I’m more worried about us… _physically._ We haven’t…” He suddenly felt embarrassed. He had talked with his therapist about sex before –nothing was really off-limits, with her—but it seemed to be such a silly thing to worry about.

“You haven’t?” she prompted, and Stiles sighed.

“There hasn’t been, like… penetration,” he said, and then quickly added, “I mean, fingers: yeah. Rimming: yeah. Blowjobs and hand jobs off the wall. Sometimes _on_ the wall.” Marin made a face, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin. “Which, like, don’t get me wrong, is awesome. So awesome. He’s _hot._ The entire thing is hot. But he just hasn’t… officially topped. Even though he told me he liked doing it.”

“And this lack of intense physical intimacy, it bothers you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Stiles struggled for words. “Because I feel like he’s still holding back from me, you know? Because I definitely want it, but I’m not sure if he really does—with me.” He wrung his hands together. “And I can’t figure out why. We hang out all the time and he always seems to show me that he cares—hell, he _sang_ to me the other day. How freaking romantic is that? But something is missing. I feel like it’s something we should talk about, but I don’t know if I’m just being paranoid or not.”

Marin looked at him, contemplating. “Do you think that maybe you’re just feeling self-conscious, and projecting your feelings onto his actions?”

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe, yeah. I’ll gladly admit that I’m not used to this. But I think it’s more than that. I just can’t shake the feeling that this is all just too good to be true, you know? Here I am with this boyfriend who I not only like as a person but who is also drop dead gorgeous, and who seems to like me back. I’ve never had that before. Something has to go wrong. It’s like this constant, overwhelming, _crushing_ fear that something terrible is about to happen.”

“It's called hyper vigilance. The persistent feeling of being under threat,” she said, making a few notes. “After what happened with your mother, it makes sense. Her death came out of nowhere for you, and now you have another person you care about and you’re afraid they will leave or get hurt, right?”

“I know we’ve talked about this,” Stiles sighed. “I know I went through the same thing with my friends when—when Mom died. I remember being afraid of Scott dying, Dad getting hit by a car, Lydia traveling to California on that plane—I get it. But this is more than just a feeling. It’s like-- it's a panic attack. You know, I can't even breathe. I think of not having him, I think about the future and for some reason it just seems so unsure, and my chest…” He trailed off.

“Like you're drowning?” she prompted, again, and Stiles nodded mutely. He realized he was shaking. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze soft. “You’re stepping back into the mindset that you can’t have happiness, Stiles. You can. You don’t have to have bad things happen in order to earn the good things.”

Stiles swallowed a lump that was suddenly in his throat. “I have problems believing that,” he admitted, and she nodded. There was some silence as she glanced over her notes.

“Do you think he’s hiding something,” she asked, gently, “or do you think that you’re the one hiding?” Stiles sucked in a shaky breath. He looked at her, unsure of what to say, and she continued on. “We talked last session about you maybe telling Derek about what happened with your mom and Allison. Have you thought more about that?”

“I’m not ready,” Stiles blurted. “I— last session I thought I might be, because he was honest about Kate. But when I try, the words get stuck. I can’t handle what will happen if I tell him. What if I cry? What if I have a panic attack when I tell him? I feel like— I need a plan.”

“Sometimes you have to let yourself be vulnerable, Stiles,” Marin said, just as softly as before. “Derek was vulnerable, and you accepted him. Why do you think he won’t do the same for you?” Stiles couldn’t think of an answer. He just ended up shaking his head.

Marin frowned slightly. “Well, that can be one of our goals for the next session, maybe? Delving more into that, into the memory of what happened? That could make it easier to voice. We could also make a plan of how you would tell him, if you end up wanting to. I don’t want to push you, though, Stiles.”

“No, that sounds good,” Stiles said, weakly. He knew that he needed to face the talk with Derek eventually, but it didn’t make it any easier. “Just—I don’t want to do it this weekend. We’re going on vacation.”

Marin smiled. “That’s nice. Where?”

“Sacramento, just for the weekend. Kind of a celebration that we didn’t break up over the whole Kate thing, I think.”

“Take that time to really relax, then,” Marin said, still smiling. “Don’t worry so much about what we talked about in this session. You clearly need some R&R, and I’ll be here for you next week. Go have fun with your boyfriend.”

Stiles couldn’t help but grin at her. “Aye aye, captain.”

* * *

 

“Look at that dog,” Stiles hissed to Derek, tugging on his arm. “It’s adorable.”

Derek glanced at the animal and snorted, nearly spitting out half of the salted pretzel he was eating. “It’s wearing a _scarf,_ ” he said in disbelief, eying the little terrier that had a blue bandana around its neck.

“Exactly!” Stiles exclaimed, and protested as Derek rolled his eyes. “Come on, you’d love dressing up a dog!”

“In an alternate reality, maybe,” Derek retorted, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin. He had spent the past two days with Derek so far. Yesterday had been spent at Derek’s house, full of sunlight hitting their faces in the morning and a blowjob in the kitchen, not to mention a few hot showers and Derek’s proclaimed “famous” pancakes. Today they were walking in a small park just on the outside of the Capitol building of California, without responsibilities or projects due to their planned “vacation” to Sacramento. Both of them had needed a break from San Francisco

The park was a quiet place, with plenty of benches and a few memorials scattered about. Stiles traced his hand over the faint outline of a firefighter who had died in service several years ago, the name _Parrish_ scratched into the marble at eye level. Stiles thought about his dad and all the firefighters who had helped out the police station over the years, and he felt his heart twinge slightly.

As if he had read Stiles’ mind, Derek squeezed his hand. “I always admire them,” he said, softly. “Everyone else is trying to escape the inferno—but they are going into it.”

Stiles nodded, thoughtful. “It makes what I do seem so silly,” he said, and Derek turned to look at him. He motioned to the camera slung over his own shoulders. “What use are pictures, really, when there are people out saving lives?”

Derek squeezed his hand again, this time more firmly. He turned Stiles to face him, cupping his face in his hands. When their lips met, it was with a soft sincerity that had Stiles gripping onto Derek’s wrists, his eyes fluttering closed. “I like your pictures,” Derek said, his voice an almost-growl with the honest roughness there, “and I prefer you doing that than risking your life any day.”

Stiles’ heart was racing. Swallowing down the sudden lump of panic in his throat, he managed to form a grin. “You just don’t want me posing in those shirtless calendars that firefighters use for fundraising.” Derek leaned back his head and laughed, his hands coming to rest on Stiles’ hips. As they kissed again, Stiles couldn’t make the knot of worry in his chest die down. His conversation with Marin flashed though his head again. _Relax,_ he told himself. _It’s going to be OK._

As the day wore on, Stiles managed to loosen up. He and Derek shared an ice cream cone and visited a café for lunch, called _La Bou._ They zipped into the Zoo, where Stiles cooed over the baby tiger as Derek rolled his eyes. He seemed much more interested in the wolves, and demanded that Stiles take a few photos (which, of course, he did). Both agreed to stay away from the lizards—Stiles had never really liked them, although he didn’t know why, and Derek didn’t seem to care.

It was only when they climbed back into the car to drive back to San Fran that Stiles realized he was exhausted. There was a bone deep weariness in him, and he couldn’t stop the yawn that escaped his lips. Derek glanced at him from the wheel, a sideways look, and Stiles tried to grin at him.

“I don’t mind if you rest,” Derek said, softly, and Stiles tried to stifle another yawn. Derek chuckled, reaching over to lay a hand on Stiles’ knee. “Seriously, get some sleep. You’ll need it for tonight.”

Stiles gaped at him. “Did you just make an innuendo?” he demanded, and Derek rolled his eyes. “No, this is an event for the ages! I should record this in the history books—ouch!” he yelped, as Derek playfully slapped his inner thigh.

“Go to sleep,” he scolded, and Stiles huffed. He leaned back into his chair.

“Ok, Sourwolf,” he mumbled, allowing his eyes to slip closed, and he didn’t need to see Derek’s glare to know it was on his face.

When he woke up, he wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep in the first place, only of just closing his eyes. He twitched up in his seat, a rush of confusion hitting him. The car was stationary, parked in a rest area, and Derek wasn’t there. He sat up straighter, slowly undoing the tangle his limbs had created in his seatbelt, and glanced out the window. Derek was sitting on a bench, the twilight hitting his face as he spoke to someone on the phone. Stiles couldn’t read his expression—but he could tell it wasn’t bad news, at the very least.

Sensing his gaze, Derek looked up. Their eyes met and he smiled, the warmth of it sending goosebumps down Stiles’ arms. Reassured that there wasn’t an emergency happening, Stiles leaned back in his chair and yawned widely, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at the clock—it was near seven at night, so they had to be close to San Fran. When he glanced out the window again, he saw the faint glow of the city. _Home sweet home,_ he thought, and at the same time Derek opened his door.

“Hey!” he said, his voice full of excitement, and Stiles stared up at him.

“You’re peppy,” he said, his voice playful, and Derek gave him a full smile.

“You won’t believe this call I just got.” Stiles raised his eyebrows (a habit, he knew, that he had picked up from his boyfriend), and made an encouraging motion with his hands. “I just got this call from a venue that we have been trying to get HaleFire into for _years._ ”

Stiles clambered out of his seat, suddenly excited with him. “And?” he demanded, and Derek kissed him.

“They want us to play, in two days!” The grin on Derek’s face would have been blinding if the sun wasn’t setting.

“Oh my god!” Stiles shrieked (in the masculine way that he was known to behave in, of course) and gave him a hug. Derek hugged him back, his arms tight, nearly crushing him against his chest.

“This is amazing,” Derek said, and it was the closest to ecstatic that Stiles had ever seen him. They pulled apart, and Derek kissed him again, all excitement. Stiles grinned into it.

“It _is_ amazing,” he agreed. He didn’t want to tell Derek he was proud, because it was cheesy, but the bubbling feeling in his chest was certainly akin to pride.

“This is huge. The band is going to _flip,_ ” Derek nearly chattered, letting Stiles go so he could go back to the driver’s seat. As he clambered into the passenger’s side, Stiles was struck by how handsome Derek was. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know that Derek was attractive—he noticed that every time he saw him. But when Derek was happy, truly excited, his chest sometimes _ached_ with how much he was drawn to the older man.

As they pulled back onto the freeway, Derek messed with the Bluetooth on his phone. “Be careful,” Stiles said, and Derek grinned at him.

“Don’t worry—I won’t crash the car before the band gets to play,” he said, and Stiles laughed. Derek swore quietly under his breath as he fumbled with the button. “Stupid California laws.”

“I’ll let you know that laws preventing using a cellphone while driving save people’s lives,” Stiles said, grinning, and Derek rolled his eyes. He stuck the Bluetooth in his ear –fantasies of Derek in an office, with Stiles sucking his dick underneath the desk, pushed themselves into Stiles’ mind— and dialed a number.

“Laura?” Derek said, after a few seconds, and Stiles leaned back into the seat with a satisfied sigh. “Hi! I have some great news…” He let Derek’s voice wash over him, not really paying attention to exactly what he was saying. He felt truly relaxed for the first time in a while. Derek had a gig, they had just enjoyed a fantastic weekend—life was _good._

By the time Derek got off the phone, they were in San Francisco itself. It was dark out, the only lights coming from the buildings stacked around them. “Is it all a go?” Stiles said, and Derek nodded.

“Yeah! It won’t be hard to get all of our stuff together.” He came to a red light and started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Stiles chuckled—the pianist in Derek was showing. It was quiet for a moment. Then: “I want you to come.”

Stiles glanced over at him. His mouth turned up into a smirk. “Right now? You’ll have to talk a bit dirtier—” He started laughing at Derek’s look.

“You _know_ what I meant,” Derek said. He pressed on the ignition as the light turned green. In a mumble, he added, “Although I do want that, too. But—would you come?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, answering his request at last. He smiled, playing with the hem of his shirt absent-mindedly. “Where is the gig? When do we leave?”

“Well we would probably go to the airport around midnight tomorrow, because we’d have to catch a red eye—” Derek began, and Stiles sat up as his stomach dropped down to his toes.

“Airport?” he asked, and Derek glanced over at him in confusion. “Wait, we have to _fly?_ ”

“The gig is in Seattle,” he said, slowly. He seemed to be realizing what was happening, as if Stiles’ pained expression wasn’t enough to infer. “I thought I mentioned that.”

“No, no, you didn’t,” Stiles said, his voice higher and more reedy than he wanted. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths. “I—can we drive?”

They were at another stoplight, and Derek turned to him. “There’s no way we would make it in time. We still have to get the instruments, clear everyone’s schedules, and then there’s the drive itself—”

“I could start driving down tonight,” Stiles said, desperation leaking into his voice, and Derek blinked at him a few times.

“Neither one of us even have a car—hell, this one is a rental—”

“I can rent another one,” Stiles retorted, and it was only when the car behind them honked that they realized the light had turned green. Instead of continuing on to his apartment, though, Derek jerked the car into an empty side street. The tires made a grating noise against the rocky pavement as he slowed to a stop, parking the car and turning to face Stiles fully.

“Flying is the only way we can get there, Stiles.”

“Then I can’t go.” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to process them, and his throat stung the instant they registered. Derek looked like he had been slapped, wide eyes flicking over Stiles’ face.

“Why not?” he said, after a moment, and his voice was soft. It was as if he was talking to an injured animal. Stiles would have preferred him mad.

Stiles faltered, wringing his hands together in distress. “Look—I—I just can’t fly, ok? You saw me at the airport last time—”

“But I’ll be with you,” Derek argued. “It’s only a four hour flight. We could stay for the weekend, give you some time to relax.”

“I... I can’t, Derek,” Stiles whispered, and he could feel himself shutting down under the weight of Derek’s gaze. His therapist had told him that this was a defense mechanism, a way that provided him comfort when he was too anxious to fathom a reply. But right now, with Derek’s betrayed eyes looking at him from across the leather interior of the car, it felt far from comforting.

Derek’s hands were flexing on the steering wheel. “I—” he began, and then stopped. He took a deep breath in, and moved a hand to touch Stiles’ knee. Stiles flinched away from it, and Derek jerked his hand back as if he had been burned.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered again, his voice wavering with emotion, and he felt like he couldn’t swallow. He forced himself to breathe in and out—he would _not_ have a panic attack in the rental car.

“Why are you so afraid of flying?”

Stiles squeezed his eyes tight, wishing with all of his body that Derek hadn’t asked that question. He wished he could gather up the words and press them back down Derek’s throat, rewind the past few minutes and start them over with a better ending.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he managed, afraid to look at Derek.

“We have to, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice firm, and Stiles shook his head. “ _Stiles._ ”

“I don’t want to, ok?!” Stiles snapped, his voice sounding too loud in the small space of the car. He took a breath in through his nose. “Look, Derek, I just can’t. I can’t get on that plane to Seattle. I’m sorry—I want to see you preform, I really do—”

“I need you there,” Derek said, and he might as well have ripped Stiles’ heart out of his chest and stomped on it. Stiles looked out the window, unable to respond. _Just tell him,_ his mind screamed, and he had to resist physically biting his tongue to distract himself from the pain of Derek’s words. There was a sigh to his left.

He felt the car slide back into reverse, and watched miserably as Derek silently navigated them back onto the main streets. The lights were suddenly too bright, the people too happy; Stiles wanted to scream at the couple walking through the crosswalk, all smiles and laughter as they tugged each other closer in the crowd. He realized they were changing directions, and his chest constricted uncomfortably as he recognized the route back to his apartment.

“Are we—we’re not going to your place?” Stiles said, and he hated the helplessness in his voice.

“I’ll drop you off at your apartment,” Derek said in reply, a controlled calm in the storm of emotions raging around the car, and it _hurt_.

It was silent then, one of the few uncomfortable silences that he had ever experienced with Derek, and Stiles hated himself because he had caused it. He knew that Derek driving him home wasn’t about him missing the gig, not really—after all, neither of them expected the other to be available 24/7. Derek could forgive him for that. But Stiles hiding his reasons for it? _That_ was the problem.

Derek seemed to be on the same train of thought as he pulled up alongside the sidewalk outside of Stiles’ place. “I wish you would trust me,” he stated, like it was simple, and Stiles looked at him with tortured eyes.

“I _do,_ ” he said, his voice cracking, and rubbed a hand over his face to try and control himself. “Derek—”

“It doesn’t feel like you do,” Derek interrupted, and the pain in Stiles’ chest was nearly suffocating. “I just—I don’t understand why you won’t tell me.”

Stiles was shutting down again, scrambling for words to express how he felt and how _afraid_ he was, about how he still had nightmares about burning metal and twisted, charred limbs. But he couldn’t find the words. What came out was a pathetic whisper.

“Please,” he breathed, and they finally met eyes. Derek stared at him and Stiles gazed back, willing himself not to break down.

Derek sighed, then turned back to the wheel as he ran his hands though his hair. “Look, I’ll call you later, ok?” he said, not looking at Stiles, and the force of Stiles’ nails digging into his palms was enough to nearly draw blood. Stiles had heard that line before; his friends used it on guys all the time when they didn’t want to break the news to them that they weren’t going to ever see each other again. Was that what Derek was doing? He drew in a shuddering breath.

“O-ok,” he managed, and unbuckled his seatbelt with shaking hands. As he clambered out of the car and opened the back door to grab his backpack and camera, the only two items he had taken on the trip, Derek still didn’t look at him. Panic was blooming in his chest as he shut the door, and he leaned into the open window on the passenger’s side.

“Derek.” Derek looked at him. Something must have been showing on Stiles’ face, because his passive expression faltered for a moment. Stiles struggled for words. “Tell me—tell me I’ll see you again.” His voice broke on the last word.

Derek was reaching across the seat in an instant, gripping Stiles wrist firmly. “Of course you will,” he said, and the raw emotion in his voice left Stiles feeling shakier than ever. “I’m—I’m upset, but—but I _will_ call you, Stiles. I mean it. When I get back in town.” All Stiles could do was nod numbly, not even able to feel relieved. Derek let go of his wrist and Stiles moved away from the window, watching as it rolled up with a soft squeak of glass sliding against rubber.

When he managed to get back to his apartment, tears soaking themselves into the skin of his cheeks, it took him three tries to open the door with his shaking hands. And when he stepped into the living room, where Scott was playing an intense game of _Call of Duty_ , it took only one glance from his friend for him to pause the game and jump up.

“Oh my god, are you ok?” Scott demanded, and Stiles couldn’t talk. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then let Scott hug him. “Did he hurt you?” Scott demanded, pulled back so he could look Stiles up and down. “Oh my god, I’m going to kill him—”

“No, Scott,” Stiles said, finally, and his throat felt raw. “ _I_ hurt _him._ ” Scott stared at him, wide-eyed and confused. Stiles collapsed onto the couch, and he had to suck in a few breaths before he could look up at his best friend. “I fucked up, Scott.”

* * *

 

“Call Lydia,” was Scott’s reply as soon as Stiles finished explaining, and Stiles groaned into his hands.

“Why is that always our plan?”

“Because we are two teenage guys in San Francisco who have no idea what the hell we are doing. I have no clue how to handle this shit, man.”

They called Lydia.

It took a few rings for her to answer, and when she did she was not pleased. “Do you _know_ what time it is?” she snapped, and Stiles tried to sound apologetic.

“We need to Skype. There’s been an emergency. Like a Derek flavor of emergency, which is _not_ my favorite flavor.”

He heard a grunt on the other end of the line. “Give me twenty minutes,” she said, and the line went dead.

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in front of the computer, Lydia’s made-up face staring back at them. She was in a bathrobe, her hair falling over her shoulders in messy waves, listening intently to Stiles’ story.

“Everything was going so well,” Stiles said, miserable. “I felt like I was floating on air. It was unreal, I can’t explain how good it was until we started fighting.”

“I can,” Lydia said, examining a nail. “It's your brain flooding with phenylethylamine.” At Stiles’ blank gaze, she rolled her eyes. “Did you ever pay attention in high school?”

“My self-confidence is already pretty low, Lyds, but feel free to lower it even further.”

“You know I think you’re smart,” she said, “but damn, you’re being stupid.”

“What?”

“Just _tell_ him,” she said, exasperation ringing through even in the poor video quality. “Look, babe, I know it’s not easy. We both do. But you can’t hide this from him forever. All that this secret is doing now is hurting you both.”

Stiles knew she was right. He put his head in his hands anyways, though, because it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “What do I do?” he whined, and she sighed.

“Make it right, of course. You screwed it up; screw it back together.”

“ _How_?” he demanded, and Lydia threw her hands up in exasperation.

“Stiles, you don't need instructions. You're too smart. When have you ever needed instructions?” He opened his mouth to reply, but she shushed him. “Look, I can give you advice and push you along, but it’s never _me_ actually acting for you. _You_ are the one who managed to get Derek—I’m your friend and I can provide moral support and guidance, but you’re the one who uses it and makes it _work._ Stiles, you're the one who always figures it out, so you can do it. Figure. It. Out.”

His brain buzzed at him as he processed her words, trying to shape them into something he could accept and understand. Scott pat him on the back and he tried to clear his head. And then it hit him, like the sudden onset of a summer monsoon during a sunny day, and he sat up straighter.

“I know what I have to do,” he said, his heart pounding frantically in his chest, and Lydia grinned at him.


	8. Chapter 8

Laura winced at the sound of the dressing room door slamming shut, her makeup brush halfway to her face. She put it back down, straightening up and glancing anxiously at Cora, who was looking down the hall with a frown on her face.

“That can’t be good,” she murmured, and Laura sighed. Cora came back over and rubbed Laura’s shoulders, trying to relax her muscles. “It’ll be ok, sis. I think Stiles not coming just really put him off his game. He’ll get better.”

“I know,” Laura said, slightly miserable, “but I wish we could help him. You know Stiles _\--_ he’s always at our gigs. I don’t think he’s missed a single one, not even that one that was for the concert band and lasted five hours. Remember?” Cora groaned at the memory.

“God, don’t bring that one up. What are you trying to say?”

“That he must have had a good reason not to come,” she insisted. “I’m serious, Cora. I don’t know what it is about flying, but Stiles must _really_ not like it. Something must have happened—” She broke off at the look on Cora’s face. “What?”

“Promise me you won’t be angry?” Cora said, and Laura furrowed her eyebrows. It was a family trait.

“What did you do?” she demanded, and Cora held up her hands.

“Calm down! It’s not like I told the kid not to come, or something. But—well—I… I kinda did some research on him.”

“Cora!” Laura cried, and Cora seemed to wilt slightly under her furious gaze. “What the hell? You just—I don’t know, investigated Stiles? How is that ok? He’s our _friend_ —hell, he might one day be our _brother_.”

“I know,” Cora said, “but Laura, Derek was upset. I’m his older sister; it’s my job to be protective. I wanted to know why it was such a huge deal. I knew he was afraid of planes because of what Derek said when we asked why he wouldn’t be showing up, so… I did some digging.”

“That’s terrible,” Laura scolded. Her heart ached for Stiles, and she couldn’t help but feel he hadn’t known exactly how crazy the Hale family truly was.

“You want to know what I found?” Cora challenged, and that caught Laura off guard. Cora smirked at her as she struggled to decide.

“I—is it bad?” she asked, finally, and Cora’s face turned sober. Any humor in the situation evaporated in an instant as Cora started to explain what she had found. Laura felt horror fill her core as the story unfolded, placing a shaking hand over her mouth.

“When you know why, it makes sense that he can’t stand to get on a plane,” Cora finished, and Laura shook her head weakly. “That’s one hell of a traumatic experience.”

“I have to talk to Derek,” Laura said, her voice firm, and Cora raised her eyebrows.

“Wait, you can’t _tell_ him—”

“Of course not! But I can make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” She grabbed her makeup brush and swiped some foundation on, slightly careless. She had never really been one for makeup, anyways—that was more of Cora’s arena. She needed to talk to Derek before they got on stage.

Peter poked his head in. “Anyone want to try and deal with the cloud of gloom that is currently residing in the men’s dressing room?” he asked, sounding worn out. “Because I sure as hell can’t make that sun shine.”

“I’m coming,” Laura reassured him, shoving her makeup at Cora. “Can you make sure everything up front is going ok?”

“Yeah, sure,” her sister said, hand on her hip. “I’ll take front stage over Derek’s emotions any day.”

“We’re on in seven minutes,” Peter told Laura as she slipped by, and she nodded at him. Truthfully, she didn’t care too much about the performance. Compared to Derek being upset, the performance was far in the back of her mind. She knew that Peter and Cora didn’t care either, not really, but they didn’t know how to deal with Derek. He had always been closed off after Kate, and it was hard for him to let them in. She didn’t know why she was an exception to that; but she had a feeling it was because she was the least intense of the family. She took after her mom in that way. It was with a sad ache that she remembered her mom’s control, her ability to find the right words when everything else was wrong. She wanted that, now.

“Derek?” she called, knocking on the dressing room door, and there was no reply. She sighed. “Derek, I’m coming in. I hope you’re dressed.”

The door was jerked open and she took a step back as Derek’s glowering face appeared. He turned quickly, stalking back over to the chair in front of the mirror. She resisted the urge to sigh again, instead stepping into the room and closing the door gently behind her.

“What do you want?” Derek asked, gruffly, sitting down in his chair and grabbing the wet comb from the counter. He started running it through his hair with unusual force.

“For my brother to talk to me.” With a small smile, she walked over to him and tugged the comb out of his hand, feeling his fingers protest at first but managing to win nonetheless. Derek sighed, and she started combing his hair more gently, waiting for him to speak. She knew how he worked; he would open up eventually.

“I want Stiles to be here,” he admitted, and Laura nodded. “I wish he could tell me why he doesn’t like flying.” She had to resist wincing, now that she knew why.

“Do you think maybe he’s afraid?” she asked, and Derek looked up at her through the mirror. She elaborated. “Maybe he thinks the truth will freak you out, or make you want to leave.”

“ _Not_ telling me makes me want to leave,” Derek exclaimed, and Laura soothingly rubbed his shoulders. “I can’t date someone who doesn’t trust me.”

“Fear can do crazy things to people,” Laura murmured. A drop of water trailed down Derek’s wet hair, slipping onto his cheek. It reminded her of the only time she had ever seen Derek cry, and she forced her hands not to clench. “You and I both know that.”

Someone knocked on the door. “Five minutes!” Peter’s voice called, and Derek glared at the wood as if it had personally offended him.

“I can’t stop thinking about him, Cora.” Derek sounded frustrated. “I’ve never had it be like this. Last night I couldn’t even sleep, because he wasn’t there with me. He’s _always_ here. And now I have to get on that stage and play like nothing is wrong.”

“It’ll be ok,” Laura soothed, but Derek shook his head and swiveled to face her.

“If I ruin this performance for you, I’ll never forgive myself. Especially if it’s over some guy—”

“Stop right there,” Laura insisted, and Derek shut his mouth at her tone. “First, you won’t ruin anything. Secondly, and more importantly, you and I both know Stiles isn’t just ‘some guy.’ You like him, Derek; and I know that he likes you. I’ve never seen you as happy as you are with him. That’s why you have to wait for him to explain. He will; I know he will, because he cares about you, too.”

“What if he never tells me?” Derek demanded, and Laura shook her head.

“He will,” she said, and Derek looked like he couldn’t argue when she said it so confidently. “You have to be patient, Derek. Stiles needs time.” She took his hands and squeezed them. “You’re my brother, and I care about you more than anything, Der. And I hate to see you hurting, I do. But you have to be strong and carry on. If you’re going through hell, keep going—you know?”

Derek was squeezing her hands back now. She smiled at him and he looked helplessly back. “You’re right,” he said, eventually, and sighed deeply. “I just—with Stiles, I want to know it _all._ It’s like it’s just not enough to know some things or to only have part of him that I understand, I want _all_ of him. I can’t help but think that I really lov—”

A sharp knock on the door made him stop. Cora burst in, looking frazzled. Derek stood up instantly, his muscles tense.

“Derek, you’ll want to go out front now,” she said, and her heaving chest made it clear she had run to them. Cora _never_ ran, Laura realized, and her heart suddenly beat faster. “I can’t believe this is happening, but: we have two minutes left. And you’ll want to get out front before then.”

“What? Why?” Derek demanded, and Cora’s stammered out a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Stiles is here. And he’s looking for you.”

* * *

 

Getting onto the airplane had been a bitch. Actually, walking into the airport had been a bitch. Screw that: ordering the goddamn ticket to Seattle and paying $500 for an experience he knew he would hate was a bitch. He had nearly been late and hadn’t even managed to pack real luggage—the only things he had on him were his wallet and phone. It wasn’t his best plan.

Nothing about the situation had been fun. Particularly the plane part.

Stiles sat down at the Seattle airport with a groan, putting his head in his hands as he tried to recover from the rough landing. The plane had arrived about twenty minutes prior and he had just gotten off it. He pulled out his phone and shot a text to Scott, then dialed a number. It only rang once. “Stiles?” said his dad’s voice, and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief.

“I made it,” he said, and he heard his dad’s own relieved sigh on the other end.

“Good. Remember, the metro there will take you to all the subareas. Don’t order a taxi, it will be expensive.”

“Righty-o, daddy-o,” he said, and let out a slightly hysterical chuckle. “Sorry. Nerves.”

“Take care of yourself, son,” his dad said, and Stiles nodded even though he couldn’t see.

“I will. I love you.”

“Love you too. And if that Hale kid doesn’t let you stay in his room, you tell me, ok?” The threat was lingering underneath the surface of his voice, and Stiles couldn’t help but smile slightly.

“Sure, Dad. Bye.”

Figuring out how to ride the metro was, shockingly, also a bitch. For anyone with a normal attention span who wasn’t also terrified that they were going to miss their boyfriend’s performance (which was at a location that Stiles didn’t have any clue how to get to), the Metro was fine. But for Stiles, it did nothing to ease his anxiety. After two close calls to royally screwing up, he managed to settle himself into a seat and wait impatiently for his stop to come up. Every minute that ticked by made his foot tap faster against the metal of the floor, and he only stopped when an old woman with a little dog looked at him like he was the spawn of Satan.

“For the love of God,” Stiles swore quietly, feeling the rain pounding against his face as he stepped onto the platform. He should have _known_ this would happen. He checked his phone, shielding it from the water pouring from the sky, and saw that he had ten minutes to travel five blocks. He glanced to his left—he would be going uphill. Silently thanking his running regime, he took off.

People had told him that Seattle was beautiful, even when it was raining. They had talked about the bright lights and delicious restaurants and all the views of the water; but none of that mattered to Stiles right now. As he ran, all he could think about was making it to Derek’s performance on time. To fly had been a necessary evil and it hadn’t been easy to make himself walk onto that plane, so he sure as hell was going to make his agony worth it. He was still full of adrenaline from the plane ride, and it made his muscles pump harder as he tried not to slip and slide on the wet sidewalk.

He saw the neon sign right before he almost passed it, and he skidded to a halt just in time. Gasping, his lungs screaming for oxygen, he shakily walked up to the doorman. “I know the band,” he panted, and the man looked at him suspiciously before grudgingly letting him in. The warm air hit him and it made him shudder. It was only then that he realized how absolutely soaked he was: down to his briefs, and in vain he tried to push his wet hair out of his face.

It was crowded, and large, and Stiles probably would have appreciated it more if he wasn’t panicking. HaleFire wasn’t on stage yet, and for a wild moment Stiles wondered if he had come to the wrong venue. But as soon as he caught sight of a mane of blonde hair, he knew he hadn’t.

“Cora!” he cried, not caring that a few people were looking at him strangely, and she looked up. Her mouth fell open (in what Stiles hoped was a pleased kind of shock) and she blinked at him, blank and unmoving. He wrestled his way through the crowd, which wasn’t hard given his wet condition, and grabbed her arm. “Where’s Derek?”

She seemed to snap back to reality. “He’s backstage,” she said, and something like awe shone in her eyes. Stiles tried to clear his head—Cora Hale would _not_ be in awe. He was lucky she wasn’t kicking him out.

“I have to see him, he has to know I came,” Stiles said, practically begging, and she nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll—I’ll get him, stay here. God, I knew you would come, freaking lovebirds,” she said, and to his surprise she hugged him tightly. Guilt washed through him. It must have shown on his face, because she quickly added, “Thank God you’re here now. I’m getting him, so just stay where you are.”

He nodded, watching her disappear through the crowd and behind the curtain. He started shivering violently, battling the urge to tug off his soaked shirt so he could try and warm up. He didn’t know what he was going to do, and he realized he hadn’t planned this part in the slightest. He had been so busy psyching himself up to get on the plane that he hadn’t bothered to figure out what he would do when he was _here._ He knew one thing: he would have to talk, and that was something that usually took little effort.

“Stiles!” cried a voice, and it sent heat down to Stiles’ toes. He twisted around right as Derek pushed through a few people and halted to a stop. They weren’t touching, and that made his chest ache. Derek was just looking at him, half a step away, overcome with hesitation.

“Derek,” Stiles said, his body still trembling, and Derek looked Stiles up and down in some type of horrified concern. Stiles stepped forward into his space, not in the mood to delay the necessary.

“Oh my god, you’re soaked,” Derek said, and Stiles relaxed into the warm hands that were suddenly on his biceps.

“I didn’t bring an umbrella,” he admitted, and Derek didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or not. “I—uh—I actually didn’t bring anything, really, just my wallet and phone.” It seemed like a stupid idea, now that he thought more about it.

“You just—what, did you just hop on a plane and come here?” Derek demanded, and Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, actually.”

Derek gaped at him. “Why—Stiles—why would you do that? You’re terrified of flying, and this city isn’t safe at night, plus you could have gotten lost—”

“I had to come,” Stiles whispered, his heart pounding in his ears, and he looked down at his feet. Derek grabbed his hands.

“I’m—I’m happy you’re here, but—you said you couldn’t come, you physically and mentally couldn’t, so why—”

“Because I love you!” Stiles blurted, look up at last, and Derek froze. They hadn’t said that to each other, not yet; they had skirted around it, expressed it in gestures, sure. But the words had come out now, and now Stiles couldn’t stop them. “I fucking love you, ok?! And I don’t care if I have to take five thousand plane rides to be with you—I’ll do it! I can’t handle not being here, not watching you preform, it was like part of me was missing until I stepped into this place, because you weren’t there. And I know that’s cheesy as hell, but it’s true. I couldn’t think about anything but how I was missing you play—and I shouldn’t have argued with you in the car like that, it was stupid—”

Derek grabbed his face and pulled him close, pressing their mouths together with a beautiful kind of desperation. The heat from his clothes soaked into Stiles’ skin and he pressed against him greedily, sucking in gasping breaths between their open-mouthed kisses. Of all the ways their meeting could have gone, he was liking this option the most.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, over and over, and Derek made a shushing noise against his lips as his hand curled behind Stiles’ neck.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“I should have just told you—”

“I never would have left you because of that, Stiles,” Derek soothed, his voice sending vibrations through their touching chests, and Stiles clung tighter to him. And suddenly Cora was there, touching Derek’s shoulder, saying something about _time to go_ and _we’re up next_ , and Stiles’ head was swimming. Derek kissed him again, firmly, and squeezed his shoulders.

“I have to go, but don’t you dare leave,” he growled, and Stiles nodded. “Peter will bring you a towel, he’s not in the first song. Stay here and watch, you need to watch.”

“I will,” Stiles assured him, shivering again, and Derek seemed to force himself to pull away. His shirt was wet from where Stiles had clung to it, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was only when he felt a towel wrapped around his shoulders that he managed to look anywhere else.

“You’re amazing,” Peter said, and Stiles was once again engulfed in a hug. It was awkward, what with Peter being much taller than him and Stiles being soaked, but the gesture was nice anyways.

“I’m really not,” Stiles said. His voice was still weak, as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He coughed, tried to clear his throat. The guilt was suffocating. They were all acting like he was a martyr. “I should have come from the start—I—”

But Peter shook his head, clapping Stiles on the shoulder. “No one’s ever done this for him. I think he forgives you, if there was even anything to forgive.” At his pointed look, Stiles glanced at the stage. HaleFire was talking in a small triangle, Cora leaning on Laura as Derek said something to them. They were nodding as his mouth moved, too quickly for Stiles to make out the words.

Someone had come onto the stage with another mic, and they were talking. Stiles tried to focus on what they were saying. “And all the way from San Francisco, we have a band that is making a steady rise into the ranks of stardom. With both beautiful originals and creative covers, they bring a whole new aspect to the music field. Let’s welcome HaleFire!”

The crowd was enthusiastic, and buzzed, and together that made for a loud round of applause and cheering that made Stiles’ ears ring. Peter was grinning next to him, letting out a whoop. Derek walked to the front of the stage, where Laura’s mic was set up, and the crowd quieted down. He cleared his throat, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin at the awkwardness of it. But his smile faltered when Derek’s eyes found him.

“I’m not normally one for shout-outs,” he said, “but I just need to say that there is a very special person here in this room with me today, and—” He faltered, and took a deep breath. “Well, my mother always used to say that music is love in search of a word. I want him to know that when I make my music, I think of him, and he’s what lets me find those words.” The crowd was very quiet now, people looking around to pinpoint the mystery guy, and Stiles couldn’t shut his open mouth. Derek let out a breath, and Cora stepped forward. Laura playfully dragged Derek to the back, near the piano.

Cora smirked at the crowd. “Ok. So. If I can get over the cavity that just gave me,” people laughed, “let’s get down to some music! We have two covers, and two originals tonight. Give us some love!” Stiles snorted at that, but a fond feeling bubbled up through his chest and into his mouth, making him grin stupidly as HaleFire took their positions.

In all honestly, Stiles couldn’t remember much of the performance. He knew that they were fantastic, knew that each song ended with cheers and hollers and plenty of stomping. Laura and Cora were harmonizing perfectly. He heard the notes of Derek’s piano, but he couldn’t place where they began or ended. It was probably their best performance—but Stiles felt like he was dreaming. It was only when HaleFire walked off the stage that he was able to get his thoughts back together. His clothes were dry, finally, and he held the towel uselessly as Laura zoomed towards him.

“We did it!” she shrieked at him, and Stiles barely managed to catch her as she flung herself enthusiastically into his arms. He grunted as she squeezed him tightly. “We did it, and we were amazing, and you saw it!” She detached herself and started jumping up and down in excitement, holding his hands.

“It was great,” he replied, and she beamed at him. But he could barely pay attention to her; not when Derek was pushing his way through the throngs of people begging for his attention, his eyes on Stiles. Laura twisted her head around and, with a soft smile, let go of his hands and stepped away. Derek grabbed him in a rough hug, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his warm shoulder.

“It was great,” he repeated, but this time the words meant something more. Derek rubbed a hand against his back. Stiles managed to unglue himself, and flushed when he realized a decent amount of people were staring at them. It was to be expected, after what Derek had said on stage—but it didn’t make him feel comfortable, exactly. Derek glanced around too, one of his hands finding Stiles’ while the other curved around his hipbone.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, lowly, and Stiles nodded as his stomach did nervous flips. _This is it,_ he thought as Derek pulled him through the crowd and to the door, giving a quick wave to the other Hales on goodbye. _You’re going to tell him._

“Our hotel is right next door,” Derek told him, a firm arm around his shoulders in an attempt to shield him from the rain. Stiles nodded, hunching himself into the leather jacket Derek was wearing. He inhaled, smelling the roughness of the material and the woody, musky scent that he had come to know as Derek’s.

They kissed in the elevator, soft touches of their lips that promised more than words. With each floor they passed, Stiles’ pulse quickened. Derek mumbled against his lips, and Stiles had to pull back so he could hear him clearly. “What?”

“I said we all have our own rooms,” he repeated, and Stiles stared at him with hope starting to flutter in his abdomen. Derek placed his hands on Stiles’ waist, touching their foreheads together. “Did you book a flight back?”

“No, I… I didn’t know what would happen, or if I would be here for just one night, or…”

“Stay with me, for the rest of the trip.” By the look on Derek’s face, it had meant to come out as a question, but the longing in it was clear. Stiles couldn’t believe it.

“You want me to?”

“Yes,” Derek said, without hesitation, and the elevator door opened. Derek pulled him out and led him down the hallway, unlocking the door to his room. It was nicely sized, with a king bed and a small dresser that was topped with a flatscreen TV. A mirror hung on the wall in front of the bed, and to the side a window was open to let in the cool smell of Seattle. Derek slung his jacket over one of the towel racks near the bathroom.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet,” Stiles managed to get out as Derek manhandled him over to the bed. Derek sat down on the edge of the white comforter, and pulled Stiles over onto his lap so that they were facing each other.

“You can say whatever you want, when you want. That won’t change things,” Derek replied, his hands stroking soothingly over the fabric covering Stiles’ ribcage. He shivered. Derek leaned forward and kissed him again, closed-mouthed and sweet, and Stiles forced himself to relax into it. Between kisses, Derek murmured, “I love you any way I can get you, Stiles. I know it could take time, and that’s ok. We don’t have to talk about it.” Stiles heart felt like it was splitting open, and everything was suddenly too hot, too overwhelming. But instead of stopping, he clung tighter to Derek’s shoulders. Stiles remembered their first hookup, where Derek had told him that his past didn’t matter. Hearing Derek say the same thing now, with such love behind it, was enough for a few minutes. They continued kissing, Derek’s hands stroking up and down his sides. Eventually, Stiles pulled away. He had to do this.

“I want to talk about it,” he murmured, and Derek’s hands stilled as Stiles clambered off his lap. He sat on the bed, cross-legged, facing Derek as the older man turned to do the same. Their knees touched, lightly, and Stiles leaned into it slightly as he tried to find his voice. Derek sat still, patient, just looking.

“I should probably start with middle school,” Stiles said, eventually. “My mom got cancer.” Derek’s eyes widened. “It was breast cancer. No one really understood how it had happened to her, of all people. She was always so healthy and exercised and got tons of checkups. We were lucky in that respect, I guess, because they caught it pretty early. It was still rough, though. I remembered her crying in front of the mirror when her hair fell out—she—she didn’t think I could see it, but I did.

“During that time, I started getting really close to Scott, because my dad was struggling pretty badly and so I didn’t like being in the house very much. He had this neighbor named Allison, who he was kinda obsessed with, and we all hung out together during the summer before eighth grade. We all got really close—they were like my brother and sister. They were there when my mom told me she would have to get her breasts removed if she wanted to have a chance. Of course, we went for it.” Stiles sucked in a breath, and Derek reached out to gently take his hands. He only then realized that he was shaking, and shot Derek a small smile.

“The operation went well and soon she was cancer-free. By then I was about fourteen. School was going well: my grades were improving and Scott and Allison were still my besties, plus I was friends with this girl named Lydia who I had a _huge_ crush on. Things were returning back to some kind of normalcy. I started getting really into photography, because Allison and Lydia liked to pretend they were models so I would do shoots with them. I remember that one of the photos got into _Seventeen_ magazine and everyone was so proud, it was so embarrassing.” Derek’s mouth twitched slightly at that. Stiles’ throat was suddenly tight, and he had to take a few deep breaths before he could talk again.

“That year there was a school trip to France, and a ton of people wanted to go. They ended up having to reduce the applicants down to just the French classes, because so many people were signing up. My mom was a substitute teacher, so she offered to go and chaperone for the two weeks that they would be there. Allison wasn’t going to go, because her mom was really sick at that point with some kind of heart thing, but when she found out my mom was going she decided to do it. Her family had French roots, so she grew up learning the language and was fluent already. I think she was in French IV? I don’t remember.

“Anyways. We took them to the airport and waved them goodbye, and we went home and cooked dinner. I remember that it was spaghetti, because that’s what my dad always made when Mom left. We—we had a TV dinner and decided to watch the news, because we were nerds like that—” His voice cracked, and he suddenly couldn’t look at Derek. But he could feel the tension in Derek’s muscles, and he _knew._ Stiles _knew_ that Derek had caught on. “No one thought—it was supposed to be a safe flight, an easy one. I heard later that the pilots had graduated from some super fancy university, no one knew why the engine malfunctioned at first, then it turned out there was some type of bolt error or—I don’t know—”

Derek reached up and pulled Stiles towards him, a hand on the back of his neck, his thumb stroking soothingly over the skin there. Their foreheads touched again. “Breathe, Stiles,” Derek soothed, and Stiles sucked in a few breaths. He closed his eyes tightly, felt two tears drop from his lids and onto his cheeks. Derek’s thumb wiped them away before Stiles had time to be embarrassed.

Stiles kept his eyes closed as he continued. “There was a _Breaking News_ segment or some shit like that, and they showed footage of the plane crashing into the ocean. I was fucking fifteen, and I watched the plane that had my mom and my could-have-been sister go down. There were rescue efforts and a lot of people were actually ok—my dad was calling people. He was trying to find out the names of the people they rescued. I don’t remember a lot of it, because—I was having a panic attack, you know? I fell asleep after and he must have carried me to my bed, because when I woke up I didn’t really know what was going on. My dad was sitting there and when I woke up he started crying, and that’s when I knew that—that we had lost her.”

He was crying openly now, and Derek was hugging him tightly. “I,” Derek began, and then cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “I remember seeing that all over the news. It was a huge deal, but—I didn’t really think too much about it. They said ten people died, and the airline had so much press coverage—”

“It was gone after a month,” Stiles said, broken, and rested his head on Derek’s shoulder. He didn’t know when he had gotten back onto Derek’s lap, but their chests were pressed together again. “All the coverage—people just forgot. Moved on. But Mom and Allison—they’re _gone._ But we thought that everything was going to be ok, when they left—Mom had beaten cancer, the threat was over, we thought she was safe, we thought Allison was _safe._ ” His voice cracked again, and he buried his face in the soft fabric of Derek’s shirt. They sat there, quiet, breathing together as Stiles tried to calm down.

“I don’t know what to say,” Derek admitted into the silence, and Stiles nodded and wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and Derek’s eyes widened in surprise. “For the—for all the crying. I haven’t really… _talked_ about it much. Just my therapist, you know? A little bit with Scott and Lydia, but it hurt them too, and my dad…”

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” Derek insisted, and gently kissed him. “That’s what I’m here for. I love you, Stiles, and I hate that this happened to you, but I’m here to talk to, to lean on. I’m not leaving.”

Stiles tried to smile at him, but it was hard to force it out. “So—yeah. That’s why I couldn’t come. And then I said ‘screw it’ and decided to. Guess I could have saved us both a lot of trouble by just accepting in the first place, huh?”

Derek squeezed the back of his neck. “You’re never trouble—well, unwanted trouble, that is.”

Stiles snorted. “That’s a dirty lie, and you know it.”

Derek made a humming noise in the back of his throat. “Maybe you think so,” he replied, “but I’d welcome you and your trouble anytime. All the time.”

“Yeah?” Stiles whispered, and Derek nodded. He placed his hands on Derek’s shirt, gently crumpling the fabric into his hands. “Same for you, too.”

Derek smiled. “Thanks.” They were quiet for a little, Stiles cuddling into the steady warmth of Derek’s body. He focused on breathing, of getting their heartbeats to match. The adrenaline and emotion from the past few days was starting to seep out of Stiles, exhaustion taking its place. He hadn’t slept much, and he had missed yesterday’s Adderall dose so he was already feeling a bit off.

Derek, as he always did, noticed. “Let’s get you to bed,” he said, his eyes slightly crinkled around the edges and oh so warm, and seeing that normalcy meant more than he ever could have asked for from Derek. The idea of _things are the same_ and _nothing has changed but for the better_ pulsed through Stiles.

He started to whine. “I just _got_ here, and it’s your big night, we can’t go to _sleep_!”

Derek was firm. “You look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

Derek snorted slightly, kissing him again. “You _know_ that’s not what I meant. I’m just worried about you, and I don’t want you passing out in the middle of a walk, or something.” _Or something,_ Stiles thought, wryly, _meaning sex._

After a few moments of staring challengingly at each other, Stiles relented. “Fine!” he sighed, dramatically, and Derek smirked in victory. Stiles pointed an accusing finger at him, standing up unsteadily. Derek’s hand flew to his hip, anchoring him. “Don’t think this is because of your smarts, sourwolf. I’m only doing this because my dad would kill you if he found out you hadn’t made me sleep, and I would enjoy still having a boyfriend in my future.”

Derek’s answering laugh was warm, and Stiles felt his stomach do a little flip. He had missed that. Without meaning to, the words spilled out of his mouth. “I missed you, so much.”

Derek’s eyes softened. He stood up as well, his fingers working their way into the gaps between Stiles’. “I missed you too.” He paused. “I—I don’t think I could have played tonight, without you there.”

Stiles leaned into his space again, enjoying the feeling of their bodies so close. “Let’s not fight again, alright?” he mumbled into Derek’s shirt, and he felt Derek’s chest vibrate with a small chuckle. When he pulled back, Derek was looking at him so tenderly that it hurt.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good plan,” he agreed, and Stiles managed to actually smile this time. He felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. Sure, he was still upset—it was hard _not_ to be, considering he had flown here and then proceeded to talk about his mother. But being with Derek made it just bearable enough to start calming down.

Stiles glanced at the bathroom, the white marble countertops contrasting sharply with the dark towels that hung on the walls, and his muscles ached. He glanced back at Derek. “I’m frozen. Can we take a bath?” Derek’s eyebrow rose. Stiles, flustered, added, “It’s not a trick for sexy times! I’m just cold and sore, that’s it.”

“I can’t believe you just said sexy times,” Derek stated, monotone, and Stiles took that as acceptance for a bath. He smirked, slipping his fingers between Derek’s belt loops and pulling him a little closer.

“My body is a temple, Derek,” he murmured, teasingly hovering their lips a few centimeters apart. “ _My_ temple. I’ll call what happens to it whatever I want.” Derek was licking his own lips now, his eyes flitting between Stiles’ eyes and mouth.

“If that’s what you want to call it, fine,” he said, his voice rough, and Stiles let out a huff of amusement. It turned quickly into a startled gasp when Derek turned him around, pushing him onto the bed. Stiles tumbled onto his back, flailing as he got tangled on the comforter. To his surprise, though, Derek’s weight didn’t settle next to him. Instead, his back disappeared into the bathroom doorway.

“I’m filling up the tub,” he called, and Stiles plopped onto his side with a sigh. He closed his eyes, letting his cheek press against the soft fabric and flexing his stiff muscles. He thought about his mom and dad, about Derek and Scott and Lydia and the Hales. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the cold, but Stiles was starting to feel a bit better, almost numb from a relief deep in his bones. It was as if his memories were being wrapped in cotton, soothed by the capable hands of his friends and Derek. It was enough, for now, just to have him know.

He realized he had been drifting off when Derek’s hands started carding through his hair. “Mmmph,” he protested, and Derek chuckled. His lips found Stiles’ neck.

“Bath still?”

The thought of hot water and naked Derek motivated him to move. He sat up and managed to get on his feet, groaning when his back popped. “God, I feel like my dad. He’s always getting joint pain. He uses this cream stuff at night that forces his muscles to relax—”

Derek made a pained face. “I don’t need to associate you with that,” he said, and Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. The cold tile of the bathroom hit his feet and he shivered, looking longingly at the steam drifting out of the tub. The sound of Derek shrugging his shirt off made Stiles turn his head. He groaned.

“Why are you so hot?” he lamented, admiring his broad shoulders and sculpted abs. Derek looked at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and Stiles rolled his eyes. The man really didn’t know what his body did to Stiles. Grumbling, he took off his own shirt as Derek slipped out of his jeans. Stiles busied himself with unbuttoning his own, resolutely not looking at Derek. The soft splash of Derek sliding into the bath made his head twitch up against his will, and he got a marvelous view of Derek’s naked form for a few moments.

His hands were shaking as he walked over to the tub. Derek was looking at him, letting his eyes go up and down Stiles’ body, and he couldn’t help the blush that crossed across his face. “Don’t look if you won’t touch,” he said, and Derek rolled his eyes. Stiles slid in front of him into the water, the heat burning just enough to be pleasant. There was a moment of awkward shuffling as Stiles tried to figure out what to do with his limbs.

“I’ve never shared a bath before,” he blurted, and Derek’s hand snuck around his chest and pulled him closer. Stiles could feel his heartbeat against his back.

“Neither have I,” Derek said back, kissing his neck with less teeth than he normally did. The possessive part of Stiles hummed happily in the back of his head. He leaned his head back against Derek’s shoulder as Derek’s fingers dug into the knots of his shoulders. “That feel good?”

“Mmm,” he consented, head tilting forward then, and Derek kissed his neck again. Stiles closed his eyes, letting the steam and heat clear his mind a little. After a few minutes Derek stopped massaging his back, letting his hands rest against Stiles’ hipbones. If he had thought this would help calm Stiles down, he was delusional. Stiles swallowed, the noise loud among the soft splashes of water and warm air, and shifted slightly to try and reduce the amount of interest that his dick had in the situation.

“You ok?” Derek asked, and Stiles nodded quickly. _I will not be a hormonal teenager. I will not be a hormonal teenager._

“Yeah, m’fine,” he said, managing a semi-casual tone, and shifted again. As he did so, he brushed a bit closer to Derek and— _oh._ Both of them froze. Stiles dropped his head, unable to stop the grin plastering itself across his face. “Are _you_ ok?”

He knew Derek was blushing by the sound of his voice. “I’m so very sorry that I find you attractive, and that the idea of taking a bath with you isn’t the most… sexually calming thought,” he snapped, and Stiles laughed. He pressed back against Derek and the older man hissed, grabbing his hipbones more firmly to try and keep him still. “ _Stiles._ ”

Stiles turned his head so he could see Derek’s face, which had a glare planted on it. But Stiles could see the way Derek’s pupils were just a little bit bigger than normal. And Stiles knew that both of them were very, very far from tired now. He swallowed again, noticing the way Derek’s eyes darted down to the movement at his throat.

“I, um,” he said, and he hated how breathy he sounded, “I’m not really doing ok in that sense, either.” Derek was making a pointed effort not to look down at Stiles’ cock. But Stiles clambered around, splashing water on the floor as he forced himself to fully face Derek. _Fuck it: I will be a hormonal teenager._ Derek took a deep breath as Stiles fit their hips closely together and grabbed Derek’s shoulders.

“I really don’t want to go to bed yet,” Stiles whispered, and Derek just stared at him as if he was speaking a different language. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you know that means I want to get some hanky-panky going on here.”

Derek made a disgusted face. “Did you just say—”

“Yes, yes I did. I’m proud of it. Want to know if I am ashamed? No. Want to hear it in Spanish? No,” he said, placing particular emphasis on the last word, and Derek looked at him like he was an idiot.

“That should not turn me on,” Derek groaned, fond, and Stiles grinned again. Derek shook his head, as if to clear it. “We really should sleep. It’s been a long few days.”

“And that’s why I want to spend the next however long _being_ with you,” Stiles said, and Derek groaned again. Stiles could tell he was winning Derek over; after all, they both wanted it. But the resistance was still there. “Look, man, we either deal with this together or I deal with it on my own. Because this guy,” and he motioned to his steadily hardening dick, “is not going away on his own.”

Derek finally looked down, and the conflicted expression that crossed his face was almost comical. Stiles made an irritated noise and, screwing conventional methods, pushed himself into Derek’s space and started nipping at his lips. “Please?” he asked, and sucked slightly at his lower lip. “I just—I just want to remind myself of _us,_ again, tonight.” He opened his mouth and pressed it against Derek’s, easing the older man’s open. Derek was becoming increasingly pliant under his hands, and Stiles ran his fingers over his broad shoulders as their tongue touched. The result was nearly instantaneous—Derek’s hands grabbed his ass and jerked him even closer, dominating Stiles’ mouth with his own in heated, filthy kisses. He had apparently made up his mind.

Stiles moaned as Derek started rutting their cocks together, and Derek groaned back in response. One of Derek’s hands came up to rest on Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles turned his head so he could suck on a few of Derek’s fingers. They had never done it before, but from the way Derek’s hips violently jerked up, it was good. Stiles closed his eyes, sucking happily. This was easily the fastest escalating sex he had ever experienced, and Stiles was grateful for it. Even though it had only been two days since they had last seen each other, their fight had made it seem like so much longer.

When he opened his eyes, Derek was looking at him sucking his fingers with blown eyes. They were still pressing together in an unsteady rhythm, the bathwater splashing everywhere. “Don’t stop,” Derek said, his voice hoarse, and Stiles took his fingers just a bit deeper into his mouth. Derek was rubbing Stiles’ inner thigh now with his free hand, making it hard for Stiles to focus at all. He groaned when Derek cupped his balls, sensitive from the heat. In retaliation, Stiles playfully bit Derek’s fingers to see what reaction he would get. Derek hissed in pleasure and withdrew his fingers, replacing them with his tongue.

“Bed, bed,” Derek urged, and Stiles nodded enthusiastically, unwilling to stop the kissing to reply. But he yelped in surprise when Derek was suddenly on his feet, Stiles half-carried and half-clinging in his arms. Derek laughed as he flailed a bit, the water on their skin making things slippery, and Stiles did his best to scowl while still being carried to the bed. But he couldn’t keep it up, not when Derek lay him down on his back and climbed over him, pressing their bodies together again.

Stiles made a keening noise as Derek started sucking and biting at his nipples, and the satisfied sound that greeted him made him feel hot all over. Derek worked his mouth up to his neck, biting and sucking, and Stiles arched greedily into him.

“Are you going be loud for me tonight?” Derek asked, voice nearly a growl, and Stiles moaned in response. Derek nipped at him again. “Going to let me know how much you like it?” he whispered, and Stiles nodded against their now-colliding mouths. He ran his hands up Derek’s back, scratching very lightly, and Derek kissed him more forcefully, pressing his mouth open with his tongue and shoving it in.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Stiles gasped around his lips, his legs going to jelly as Derek’s hand closed around the base of his cock. He fucked himself into it, rocking his hips down and up as precome started gathering on his tip.

“What do you want?” Derek grunted, his own cock finding friction against Stiles’ leg, and Stiles scrambled to make his mouth work.

“I want you to fuck me.” The words came out without much thought, and Stiles felt himself soften slightly as dread filled him. He hadn’t talked to Derek about that yet, about how badly he wanted it. He didn’t want to screw this up, not after he had just come clean about his past. But he was distracted almost instantly by Derek speeding up his pumping. Any softness that Stiles had gained was gone within seconds. “Oh my god, oh my god,” he moaned, and Derek hummed approvingly. He slowed down, just enough to keep Stiles hovering on a pleasant edge.

“I want to fuck you too,” Derek whispered, and Stiles had never been so turned on by six words in his life. He let his hands grip Derek’s ass, and Derek jerked against his leg. “God, Stiles, I’ve wanted to fuck you so badly. You take my fingers so well—like you were made for me, made for my cock—”

“Please,” Stiles begged, feeling too close to the edge already, “please, Derek, you know I want it, I could take it, I would take you so well—”

He liked what his words did to Derek, liked that Derek was nipping and pushing down on him with an unhinged eagerness that he had never seen before. “Lube,” Derek gasped against neck, seeming frazzled, “I didn’t—I don’t have any packed—”

Stiles made a motion to his jeans, too busy rocking into Derek to really talk much anymore, At Derek’s surprised look, he managed to grunt out, “I was hopeful.” He keened again when Derek’s hand left him and his weight on the bed disappeared, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. Derek started looking through Stiles’ pockets, and Stiles grinned when he came back holding a small bottle and a condom. But when Derek picked back up again, his speed was slower. He stroked Stiles almost lazily, and Stiles whined.

“Come _on,_ ” he insisted, reaching up to tug on Derek’s hair, and Derek made a noise that was halfway between grunt and growl as he pinned Stiles down. The pop of the lube opening made Stiles squirm eagerly, his fingers moving down to Derek’s ribs. The muscles rippled under his hands.

“Are you sure—” Derek began, and Stiles hissed at him as a finger ghosted teasingly at his hole.

“If you don’t stick your fingers in me _right now—_ ” He never got to finish his threat. Derek had spread his legs in a smooth motion, and his warm finger eased deep inside Stiles. Stiles pressed down into it with a loud moan, and Derek groaned again. The older man leaned in and kissed him.

“You sound so hot, I can’t believe your mouth,” he whispered, and Stiles whined just so he could feel Derek’s dick twitch against his leg, where it was plastered, red and erect. He was distracted from his victory when Derek added in another finger, sliding them slowly in and out. As he started to scissor him, lube coating his fingers and making the process nearly unbearably pleasant, Stiles couldn’t help but talk.

“I want—Derek—I can’t, please, I can’t handle it, I need you inside, you have no idea—” He was blabbering, but Derek was getting off on it. A third finger slid in and Stiles gasped, arching, then pressing down in rhythm. “ _Derek,_ ” he begged, voice breaking, and Derek kissed him again,

“I know, baby, I know,” he soothed, and Stiles tried to breathe. As the fingers continued dipping in and out of him, he became increasingly desperate. He unfisted one of his hands from the sheets and drug Derek’s free hand up to his mouth. He could see Derek’s abs tense as they accepted the weight of his body, more than willing to give Stiles fingers to suck. Derek looked like he was becoming increasingly uncontrolled.

“You have a sucking kink,” Stiles gasped to him, and Derek made a particularly pointed press of his fingers. It was the first time tonight that Derek had purposefully hit his prostate, and little dots of pleasure floated across Stiles’ eyes. He moaned, Derek’s fingers still in his mouth, and started sucking again. Stiles opened his eyes ( _when had they closed, he wondered_ ) and whispered, “Derek, come on, please!”

“Trying,” Derek said, his voice rough, and suddenly his fingers in Stiles were gone. Stiles heard the sound of a condom being opened and nerves fluttered up in his stomach. They were doing this. Derek was going to be inside him, opening him. The thought was enough to make him arch pleadingly, and Derek’s quiet curse made it clear that he had seen.

Then Derek’s hands were on his inner thighs, carefully spreading them just a little bit further. Stiles allowed his hands to squeeze the sheets again, swallowing and trying to relax. Derek cautiously maneuvered him so more of his weight was on his back, and positioned himself. “We’re going to take it slow,” he told Stiles, and he would be lying if he said that wasn’t a relief. Derek wasn’t the smallest shoe in the drawer.

“Ok,” Stiles said, willing himself not to stutter, and Derek stroked his knee gently.

“We’ll stop anytime you need to, ok?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, willing himself not to squirm.

“Just keep me informed—”

“For God’s sake, you know I will, hurry!” Stiles exclaimed, his nerves making him more jittery than normal. Derek, he knew, could tell; it was with a small smile that Derek leaned forward and kissed him. It was soothing, and sweet, and Stiles could help but relax slightly into it. He trusted Derek, he reminded himself. “Sorry,” he managed to mumble, but Derek just smiled again.

Stiles gave out a little gasp as Derek’s head entered into him. It was slow, but the ache was intense; his body couldn’t seem to decide whether it was pleasurable or painful. _A little of bit of both_ , he concluded, his mouth opening in a silent moan. Derek was steady at first, but then slowed down and stopped as Stiles panted, catching his breath. Derek was keeping him firmly in place, rubbing soothing circles inside his legs. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” Stiles gasped. “You can—more is fine.” Derek eased in, just a bit more, and suddenly the stretch was equal pleasure and pain. He whimpered. “Derek, more, come on, more.” Inch by inch, Derek buried himself inside Stiles, and the feeling of their bodies pressed so close together was better than anything Stiles had felt before. Derek was all in then, his chest glistening with some sweat and a hand stroking Stiles’ legs to try and relax him a little. Stiles shifted, getting used to the feeling of being so full.

“Can I—can I move?” Derek asked him, and it was only then that Stiles realized just how affected Derek was by all this. He was holding back, Stiles knew—he couldn’t imagine how hard it had been to ease in, one small amount at a time. He glanced down and the image was filthy, erotic: Derek pressed deep inside him, Stiles’ cock red and erect, precome covering it. Derek was looking too, looking where his body joined with Stiles’, and it he seemed to be in a state of semi-shock. Derek looked up at him. “I’ll go slow,” he said, eyes showing the lust that was pulsing through him. Stiles took a breath in and, feeling comfortable, nodded.

The effect was instant. “ _Oh,_ ” Stiles moaned, high-pitched, feeling Derek’s cock move. It was a toe-curling pleasure and _so much better_ than just watching porn had been, and Stiles couldn’t even think. Derek was moving slow, steady, setting a rhythm that stopped the burn from being overwhelming. But it wasn’t _enough,_ Stiles needed more, he needed to _feel it_ —

“Faster,” he urged, and Derek didn’t need to be told again. His thrusts became sharper, more urgent, and Stiles used his remaining strength to meet him in the rhythm. He was blabbering, moaning, and he couldn’t really control what he was saying but he knew it was about Derek, about how good he felt inside him, how he needed to _come._ Derek was grunting above him, talking back, but Stiles couldn’t really hear him through the sharp bursts of ecstasy that were shooting through his body each time Derek hit his prostate. Derek’s hand came up and curled around his length. And then he knew.

“I’m going to come,” he cried, trying to warn Derek, but the older man’s rhythm didn’t slow. And then Stiles’ vision spun, his head feeling temporarily gone as he came in pulsing waves, moaning Derek’s name. Derek groaned and came soon after from the tightness of Stiles clutching around him, his hips giving a few automatic half-thrusts in the chase of some final pleasure.

They were quiet for a few seconds, panting, their chests heaving and glistening with sweat. When Derek pulled out of him it felt strange, empty, as if his body had already decided Derek should be there forever. But Stiles couldn’t really gather the energy to tell Derek that, not when he limbs felt like noodles and his post-orgasmic haze was settling in.

“That,” he managed to slur, “was amazing.” Derek leaned in, wiping off the come on Stiles’ stomach as he tossed the condom into the trash by the bed. Stiles pitied the maid, and made a mental note to take out the trash himself.

“It was,” he agreed, and Stiles made a happy noise when Derek turned him onto his side, spooning him.

“Why didn’t we, before?” His mouth said the words before his brain processed them, and Derek tensed for a moment. But then he relaxed, his fingers stroking Stiles’ waist.

“I wanted it to be a promise,” Derek admitted into the back of his neck, and Stiles managed to get enough energy to look at him. Derek’s eyes were fond, full of the sleepy satisfaction that Stiles was also feeling, but there was a shyness in them. “I didn’t want to do it until—until I knew I could make this –make us—something special.”

Stiles was trying to process his words. “For a long time?” he asked, and Derek kissed him.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “A long, long time.”

“I like the sound of that.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you ready?” Derek asked him, and Stiles laughed rather hysterically.

“Is a mouse ready to get eaten by a hawk? Is a child ready for the ice cream on their cone to fall onto the sidewalk? Is a fish ready to sprout legs and walk out of the water?”

“Technically, the last one _did_ happen and it turned out ok—although a bit slower of a timeline, given evolution,” Derek replied, and Stiles glared across the seat at him.

“Maybe I’m _evolving_ to hate you,” he snarked, and Derek just grinned at him. He squeezed Stiles’ hand, tightly, and Stiles let it ground him. He glanced out the window of the plane, his heart in his throat. They were on the flight back to San Francisco with the rest of the Hale family.

“A weekend was not enough to prepare me for this,” he groaned, and Derek moved his hand down to his knee. Stiles looked at him, noticed the way Derek’s eyebrows were knitted together in concern. He managed to smile, and touched his hand to squeeze it. “I’ll be ok.”

“I’m here,” Derek said, and Stiles nodded.

He was.

 

 

 

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and feedback make me happy!


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